Dithen
by majorbee
Summary: Prequel to  Rapid Peril. Twenty years before FOTR.  Both Faramir and Boromir have disturbing premonitions regarding young Ranger Captain Faramir's upcoming mission to uncover the source of enemy attacks on the northern borders of Gondor.
1. Chapter 1

**Dithen**

_**By Eleanor Tremayne and Carolyn Golledge**_

A/N Yay to all the reviewers who 'talked' Eleanor into posting this story! A couple of things you need to know – this is AU, a prequel to Rapid Peril. Elena and Liel are Eleanor's OCs, Garad is mine. This is primarily a soldier's story, there will be profanity. I wrote some of the action scenes, primarily those in Garad's POV also action on the river. It takes place approximately 20 years before FOTR / Rapid Peril. It also serves as a prequel to Eleanor's For Gondor and Breaking Strain. (I hope Eleanor will eventually agree to post these stories, too, so keep those reviews coming!) Also I'm posting under my majorbee as it's easier than setting up new for Eleanor. – Carolyn

Chapter One

"Reconnoiter only! Get in and get out fast. Under no circumstances are you to engage the enemy. And do not cross the river!"

Garad winced at Boromir's tone. He could imagine Faramir's expression, his eyebrow raised and his arms folded across his chest, even as he paid frowning attention not only to the words, but the way his brother was bellowing them, the way he moved, trying to learn what lay behind his glare and the bluster. Boromir laughed off any suggestion that he, too, had the Sight he claimed "plagued" the other members of his family, but anyone who had ever fought at his side knew better.

"Such raids are common at this time of year," he heard Faramir say, and recognized his Captain working to focus Boromir's thinking mind on what his intuition was trying to tell him. The two of them often did this for each other, though it only got this dramatic when one was badly frightened. In a way, it was easier on Faramir, for he could work to protect his brother from himself, where the job of Captain-General all too often dictated that Boromir must send his brother into harm's way.

"It's too early…." Boromir muttered in reply, making Garad lean closer to the open door to keep hearing him clearly.

"The winter weather has come early to the river, so in turn they raid our farms early," Faramir pointed out, with a reasonableness he knew would provoke his brother to put his finger even more firmly on what was troubling him.

"Our harvests are not in," Boromir said. "You know they only risk the border raids to get the provisions they need to see them through to spring. They are killing the goose, rather than plucking it."

"Since when do Orcs think logically?"

"There is something different about these raids. They are too fast, too clean for Orcs…. And the storms are only on the river, not yet in the Mountains. There is no profit in it for the lazy bastards, and Orcs have no great desire to die. There is another will behind their actions, something I cannot see…. You are the eyes of Gondor, Captain. See to it you do not leave her blind. Move swiftly, follow your orders, and report back to Osgiliath with all due speed."

"I will do my duty, Sir."

With great effort, Garad kept from rolling his eyes. As much as he loved Faramir, he could be a stiff-necked bugger at times.

"You will exercise caution and discretion, My Lord!"

Hanging his head, Garad pinched the bridge of his nose. Lovely, now Faramir had Sunshine behaving like he had a poker stuck up his ass, which was bound to make life uncomfortable for everyone.

"You are free to choose another for this mission, if you do not trust me with it."

Despite himself, Garad jumped at the crash Boromir's two mailed fists hitting the thick planks of his desk made.

"Damn it, you know you are the only one I can trust with it!" Boromir snapped.

"Then perhaps you should refrain from telling me how to do my job?" Faramir's voice was mildness itself.

"Stay away from the fucking river, or I'll wring your damned neck!" Boromir roared. "Am I clear?"

'Crystal,' Garad thought with a wince, knowing the bellow would have carried throughout the Citadel.

"Try a little louder," Faramir suggested. "While I have certainly heard you, Oh My Captain-General, perhaps the guards stationed on the Eastern bank did not."

"My guards have the brains to remember I need them alive," Boromir replied, in a slightly lower tone. "Something you and your Rangers have yet to learn to my satisfaction!"

"You said there are survivors?" Faramir asked, accepting the closest thing he was going to get to an apology and moving back to the point.

"From the area, not from the raids," Boromir answered. "Talk to them before you go. Her Grace has been taking care of them, you can compare notes."

"How bad is it?" Faramir asked, his voice dropping in concern, no doubt a response to Boromir's expression.

"Some are children…."

Garad closed his eyes briefly. Always the worst for any soldier, it somehow seemed to hit Boromir the hardest of all of them when children were involved. Garad suspected he saw Faramir in them, as Faramir must have been when their mother had died, still in his cradle curls and skirts, no doubt clutching some stuffed toy like a lifeline. There had to have been a stuffed toy, Garad knew, because every time some terrified babe found its way into the arms of the Captain-General of Gondor, it would have a gigantic, straw-stuffed sock in its little hands if nothing better could be contrived.

"_Osthiril_ will care for them," Faramir said, somewhat awkwardly. Garad smiled, knowing Faramir himself was a shining example of the care given to strays that came under Her Grace's hand.

"There are others, older; some have served in the militias."

"Their information should prove useful. They are in the citadel?"

"Report to me before you leave…. Come to dinner, if you can. You were missed these past days."

Faramir's answer was silence, one ended by a heavy, heaved sigh from Boromir. Garad suppressed a sigh of his own, having been one of the accomplices in helping Faramir avoid his father's unannounced and most unwelcome visit to the City of Osgiliath.

"He has left the City. I saw him through the gates within this last hour. I deemed it best he go while the weather was favorable."

Garad could just imagine, having heard a thing or two about the most recent raging row between Boromir and Denethor from Elena.

"He should not have come."

"He is the Steward. It is his right."

Faramir's derisive snort was eloquent in its dismissal.

"Mir…." Boromir half-pleaded, half-warned, "I have enough of a headache…."

"It will take us at least a day to organize the mission, however swiftly we may wish to move," Faramir relented. "I will come to dinner."

"Liel has missed you," Boromir said gruffly.

"As I have missed her – and you," Faramir said, and Garad could easily picture his smile as he looked at his brother. "Can you help me with the children?"

A wise move on Faramir's part, as well as a desire to spend more time with his brother; for children responded to Boromir in a way Garad had seldom seen. It took longer for the rest of them to gain their trust, but they took to Boromir like burrs in the coat of some great, shaggy hound, certain he existed only for the express purpose of protecting and playing with them.

"I will join you in a little while."

Heavy footsteps heralded the brothers' exit from the office that had been Boromir's front-line headquarters for the last nine years. Garad stood up, marveling once again at how differently the two brothers carried themselves, Faramir as light on his feet as the night wind, Boromir as steady and firm in his tread as the bedrock Minas Tirith rested on.

"Ah, Garad," Boromir said as he came through the door, side by side and in step with Faramir.

"My Lord," Garad nodded.

"A word with you, if you have the time?" Boromir ordered pleasantly.

"Of course, My Lord," Garad replied, sharing a flickering glance with Faramir.

"It will just take a moment, Mir," Boromir smiled. "I will send him along after you."

Blithely ignoring the frown Faramir gave him for such a summary dismissal, Boromir led Garad back into his office.

"Close the door," Boromir said, sitting down on the long edge of his sturdy desk.

Exchanging a last glance with his Captain, Garad did as he was told. What was Boromir playing at? He must know Garad would tell Faramir whatever passed between them, if it concerned the mission, as he had known Garad would overhear every word of the conversation he had just had with his brother.

Arranging himself comfortably in the big chair in front of the desk, Garad crossed his arms and cocked his head as he looked up at Boromir.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather not be the grist between the mortar and the pestle, Oh My Captain-General."

"What?" Boromir blinked, then waved a hand at Garad before using it to scrub his face. "Our little chat?" he asked, suddenly looking and sounding very, very tired. "More than likely, you will have to cross the river. I just want to make sure he's bloody well thought about every other option before he does!"

"Faramir is not a reckless Man," Garad reminded him.

"I know," Boromir sighed. "But…. You know, and I know, and even he knows he has nothing to prove, but having our father here…. Well, it puts him in mind of things he might feel need disproving to others. For all his experience and skill, he is but twenty and I know our father's …blindness… cuts him deeply. He knows he cannot sway Denethor by any word or deed, but those the Steward might influence…."

"You may trust him to put the welfare of his Men and his people before his pride," Garad said. "And to know anyone the Steward might influence isn't worth Orc shit."

Boromir nodded, with a smile that Garad could only call doting. "I know that. But I am glad I have you to remind me, when I would forget."

He began to say something else, hesitated, and began fidgeting with the cuff of one glove, fussing with the tiny, hinged knuckle-plates of the half-gauntlets he was wearing.

"You wanted to speak with me privately?" Garad suggested helpfully, resisting the urge to tell him to spit it out before it choked him.

"I need…. I would like to ask you to make me something," Boromir finally said. "It is beyond what you have taught me to do, though I doubt I would ever have the skill needed, if I had all the time in the world to practice."

'Interesting,' Garad thought, unfolding his arms to lean forward and put his elbows on his knees, letting Boromir know however deep the water was, he was on safe ground.

Standing up, Boromir went behind the desk, bending down to pick up the massive round-shield leaning against the legs of his big chair. The thing was always close to his hand, or clomping along across his back. It was a wonder it hadn't turned him hunchback with its weight and the beating it constantly delivered, but it was his pride and joy, perhaps even more than the sword he carried, for the shield was his and his alone, a gift from his Lady declaring her love for all the world to see, while the sword was an heirloom of Numenor.

The shield, of course, had been the reason for the fight with his father. That was all Elena had time to tell him, but it was enough to explain why the private chambers of the Princess needed a new table.

Boromir smiled as he traced the repousse wings cradling the bright steel boss in the center of the shield, the personal badge of the Princess Sovereign. Then he held the massive thing out to Garad with one hand, as if he were handing over an empty plate.

"Can you make a copy?' Boromir asked.

Standing, Garad took the shield from him with both hands, eyeing it dubiously.

"I'm not an armourer," he answered. "I can do the fittings, but you will need – "

"A small one," Boromir interrupted, showing Garad a circle he had made with the thumb and index finger of one hand. "A pendant, in silver."

Garad blinked, and looked again at the shield.

"It must be unmistakable," Boromir said, sitting again on the edge of the desk, but gripping its edge with both hands to hold him as he leaned forward, toward Garad and the shield. "All who see the pendant must know it matches the one I carry."

"I can," he said, nodding slowly, turning over in his mind how he would do it, thinking of the detail work it would involve. "Yes, I think I can. What's it for?"


	2. Chapter 2

Boromir sat up, and his grip on the desk turned his fingers white. "Liel," he answered, his lips pressed thin.

Garad frowned, and sat back down, balancing the shield across his lap, letting his silence invite an explanation.

"The Dwarves have a custom," Boromir said at last, his gaze lowering to the stone of the floor. "It is called a Shield Union. It is considered unbreakable, a joining of heart, mind, and soul. Sometimes it is shared between siblings, or a parent to a child, sword-brother to sword-brother, between lovers, or husbands and wives."

Garad considered his next words carefully. "Her Grace is not a Dwarf. Would a ring not be better?"

"Rest assured, she shall have one when I have the right to give it!" Boromir snapped, springing to his feet to pace the room like a penned-up, angry bull.

"When you have the…? I don't understand you."

Sighing heavily, Boromir stopped pacing and turned to look squarely at him. "By the Ancient Laws of Gondor, I am not of age. I may not marry without the permission of my father until I am forty."

"Those ancient laws have long since been set aside."

"Not for the eldest son of the Steward," Boromir ground out from between clenched teeth.

"You're fucking joking," Garad said, though he knew Boromir wasn't. "You've been her consort for how many years now?"

"Champion," Boromir corrected. "My father will not recognize me as her consort."

"As long as she does, he has no say in it!"

"I cannot press this," Boromir growled, and his desk took another blow from his clenched fist. "If I challenge my father, Eradan and his cronies on the council will do all they can to take the Steward's power for themselves. We cannot risk the upheaval, or any hint of kin-strife. Our people must endure enough as it is, they cannot lose faith in the House of the Steward."

"But, surely…. Until you are forty?"

Boromir sighed heavily. "If we were to have a child, I think I could force him to acknowledge me, to give his sanction to a wedding that would bankrupt Gondor, for if he did not, then only Faramir's children would be legitimate."

Again, Boromir smacked the desk.

"It seems the rules do not apply to the younger sons of Stewards. Faramir may marry any whore he likes, especially if it will take him far from Minas Tirith!"

Garad managed to keep his shock and his own anger from his expression, recognizing Boromir's last words to be Denethor's, bitterly quoted. He wondered if the table had suffered its demise in lieu of the Steward's head, if he had dared to call Aglariel of Osgiliath a whore to Boromir's face, or her own, for that matter.

"So what's keeping you?" Garad demanded. "You've had what, eight, nine years now?"

"I would not use a child so."

"If you want to marry her, don't you want to have children with her?" Garad argued.

"Of course I do," Boromir said quietly, looking away, into the distance of the far future. "But it may not be possible…."

Garad felt a flicker of dread at the base of his spine. "But she is – I mean, she has had a child."

"And lost him."

"Well, yes, but to an accident. I mean, surely, she could have another?"

"She is a healer," Boromir said. "She will not conceive unless she wishes to, and she does not, not in her secret heart. She knows Osgiliath will be lost, eventually, at least as a City. It is little better than a front-line garrison now, nothing left to give an heir. Perhaps when I can call her my consort, her heart will ease, but I do not know…. It is hard enough for her to see Faramir ride forth, I do not think she can allow herself the possibility of losing yet another child, and I don't know if I can ask her to take the chance, not as we do have Faramir."

The weight of the shield shriveled in comparison to the weight of this brutal confidence, and Garad had no idea what to say. In the end, he didn't say anything, and after a few minutes, Boromir cleared his throat and opened the stiff-sided leather bag sitting on the desk, long since knocked from its base to its back from the beating the thick oak under it had taken.

He took a small silver cup from inside it, one he could easily have hidden in the palm of his closed hand if he had wished. Garad recognized the type, though his had been made of tin and only lined with silver. His mother had called it a 'big boy' cup, with a handle on one side and a curving indent on the other to let small hands grip it firmly, and hurl it rather accurately, too, as he remembered.

Boromir threw the cup to him, and Garad caught it easily in one hand. It was heavy enough to be pure silver, perfect in its balance and absolutely beautiful in its simplicity. It was the work of a master craftsman, and had the quiver of something else in it, the tell-tale feel of a gift of love that had in turn been well-loved. He remembered how much his own first 'adult' cup had meant to him.

"It is mine," Boromir said, with a reddening of his neck and the top of his cheekbones, a combination of embarrassment and the defiant anger of a Man who had been told he was a child by the one person whose body he could not prove his worth against.

"My grandmother had it made it for me, and me alone. It should be enough to make the pendant, and to pay you for the labor."

Aware that Boromir's pride had taken enough of a beating, Garad held back his rejection of the payment, as well as his dismay over the destruction of the cup. He simply nodded, lifting the shield up on its edge to indicate to Boromir that he should take it back.

The other Man did so, holding it rather like one of those forlorn children with their straw-filled socks.

"Come to dinner tonight," Boromir said, when Garad stood. "Damrod and Beregond too. Let us be merry together."

"There is much work for us to do," Garad reminded him. "Remember, questioning the children is still ahead of us."

Not to mention an Elena who would expect an appropriate good-bye, rather than a night spent at the casting forge. "Perhaps breakfast would serve better."

Boromir shook his head. "I will not be here."

At Garad's look of surprise, he sighed deeply. "A messenger has been sent from the Steward to the King of Rohan. I do not know the message he carries, and… I need to."

An ugly truth plainly stated.

"You don't need us intruding, then," Garad said. "Keep this night for family, if you must say farewell before even we leave."

"You must come," Boromir said, moving to allow Garad to head toward the door and the duties that lay before him, both of friendship and work. "Faramir will be the easier for it, and so will Her Grace. It has been too quiet at our table."

"If you like, it will be our honor to attend you and Her Grace," Garad agreed, accepting the invitation before Boromir turned it into an order both of them would find awkward. Slipping the cup into the pouch hidden by his surcoat, he took the forearm and hand Boromir extended to him, clasping it firmly before turning to go.

He was in the doorway when Boromir's hand grabbed his elbow. That sense of foreboding tingled through his spine again, for Boromir had not made a sound as he had crossed the floor, moving as silently as Faramir did.

"Garad…." Boromir's voice was low, urgent, with a disturbing note of desperation in it. "Keep your boots dry, will you?"

Putting a grin on his face, Garad patted the hand cutting off the feeling to his fingers. "Wouldn't have it any other way, Sunshine!"

Boromir let him go then, and it took all the mental discipline Garad had to stroll away from the office toward the Citadel, as if he hadn't a care in the world, instead of feeling a hollow, creeping certainty it wasn't his brother Boromir was worried he would not see again.

SCENE BREAK

"Garad! You old war dog!"

The greeting was as familiar as the beaming face of the Inn Keeper limping around the bar to pull him into a hug. "You're looking well, Oro!" he answered, returning the fierce, back pounding hug.

Laughing, the short, broad Man patted his flat barrel of a stomach. "Getting fat and lazy, Lad!"

"That'll be the day!"

Their reunion had attracted little attention among the patrons, mostly guards grabbing a meal either coming off duty or going on. It was easy to tell the difference between them, for those coming off duty were drinking beer, and those going on were drinking strong mugs of tea. It didn't matter what they had ordered, if they were going on duty, they got tea, and woe betide the fool who lied about his shift, for Oro always knew. Once a Master Sergeant, always a Master Sergeant

"D'you have a minute?" Garad asked.

"Aye, for you, I'll make one," the older Man replied, leading the way out of the main tap room upstairs, to his private office

Normally, it would have been whiskey in his glass, but today it was small beer. If he didn't know Garad's exact orders, he knew Garad well enough to know his old Square mate hadn't come to reminiscence.

Garad got to the point, pulling the beautiful little child's cup from his pouch and handing it to Oro.

"I need you to keep this for me. If I don't come back for it, see to it it's given to Boromir, on the day his first child is born."

Oro grunted, the surprisingly long fingers of the burly Man appreciating the artistry of the beautiful little trinket.

"And I'll need the use of your crucible, and some materials…."

SCENE BREAK

Children's laughter could be plainly heard in the hallway outside the Royal chambers of the Citadel of Osgiliath. The sound made Garad smile even as he shook his head. Shifting the broad basket he held from his arms to one shoulder, he stopped in front of the door, knocking politely, albeit loudly.

More laughter, running feet, and Garad felt his mouth start to water from the smell of sugar and butter from the sweet, fried cakes he'd brought along with him from Oro's tavern. His cheek was growing warm from where the heat from the straw-packed, paper wrapped treats leached through the open weave of the wicker.

The door was opened at last, barely wide enough for him to get a boot in through the crack opened wide enough to show the face and most of the body of the current guard on duty, a young creature Garad assumed was a boy. He looked like a boy about the chin, but you could never tell, not when they still had their cradle-curls and wore tunics instead of shirt and trousers.

This particular tiny person had blue eyes and a serious expression rivaling Faramir at his most pontific, with the eyebrows drawn together over a small nose, the mouth in a frown of scrutiny as the child stared up at him. Then it looked down, considering Garad's boots, gauging their span with two hands held up in front of him, cocking his head to one side with a squint to make sure of his measure. Resisting the temptation to put one foot behind the other in faint hope of mitigating the size of his boots, Garad smiled down at it encouragingly.

With a single emphatic nod, the child turned away and left the crack in the door at a run. It disappeared from sight, its' not so little voice piping, "It's Garad!" in broadest accents of the Westron used on the borders between Rohan and Gondor.

'Male,' Garad decided. Pushing the door open all the way he made an entrance greeted by the giggles from a clutch of girls just of an age to be interested in boys, all of them gathered around the smirking Elena.

His Captain spared him a glance, then collected a double-take, recognizing the basket from Oro's. The lads and lasses gathered around him followed his gaze, looking somewhat unhappy at the interruption of the discussion they had been having about the three dimensional, miniature star-clock Faramir held.

He looked to Her Grace of Osgiliath for his clue as how to proceed, and found her seated upon a low bench, two girls who looked to be sisters combing her long black hair while a babe still in blankets slumbered in her arms. The royal jewels too august to be pawned were spread on either side of the bench, waiting to dress the royal 'doll'. She smiled at him, beckoning him into the room and directing his basket to the table by the fire by gestures with one of the bare feet resting on the thick rug below the bench.

Damrod came to help him, the adults trailing along with him. They were farmers, and militia men and women, solid, dealing with life as was their way, simply as it came to them. That their children were making toys out of the priceless treasures of Numenor seemed to faze them not at all, though Garad had no doubt it would become a treasured family boast.

A heavy tread turned his attention toward the bedroom Her Grace shared with her Champion, said champion emerging from its privacy at the tugging guidance of the door-warden. Boromir had to stoop a little to keep two of his left fingers in the grasp of the child.

He carried the twin of the door-warden on his right hip, this second babe burdened with a cast nearly the length of one small leg. The horn the wounded child had replaced on Boromir's hip was being clutched by that child like a comfort toy, its curve around its waist and over Boromir's bracing arm, the silver reed a perfect balance point for a chin as equally determined as his brother's.

"You're right," Boromir agreed in Westron. "It's Garad!"

"Who is late," Faramir chided, handing the time-piece to the lad closest to him. The lad seemed properly awed by the responsibility with which he had been entrusted, so much so that Garad had little fear for its safety should they suddenly be assailed by a horde of Orcs.

"Rations," Garad explained, gesturing toward the basket. "Oro sent them to feed your bears, Your Grace, lest they eat you out of hearth and home!"

"No danger of that," Osgiliath replied with a smile. "But give him my thanks for his consideration."

"Nothing for me?" Elena pouted. "Or do I need to growl and sprout hair and huge feet before I am considered?"

Recognizing his cue, Garad swept her a gallant bow, taking her in his arms. With a wink to the gaggle, he bent her backward and kissed the living daylights out of her. He took his time, making sure the wide-eyed gigglers had a good show, knowing he had to compete with their recent trauma when their thoughts wandered in the darkness, before sleep took them. Far better they should lie abed tonight trading hopes of lovers to be, than remembering the evil that had shattered their lives.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked, straightening up from their deep bend with his arms around her waist and hers around his neck, her feet dangling above his boots.

"You've made a start," she allowed, kissing the tip of his nose. "Come, help me reassure Beth her efforts are superior to all mortal cooks, and I shall forget your tardiness!"

Laughing, Garad collected a distracted acknowledgment of his mission from Faramir, who was making a discreet, circuitous beeline for the basket.

"I leave the basket for you to guard, Oh Fair Ones," Garad told Elena's rapt protégés. "If our plates are not cleaned to polish, there will be revolt in the kitchen! I leave you to serve Her Grace by making sure no one spoils their supper."

Garad jerked his head at Faramir, throwing his Captain to the giggling Gaggle without hesitation or remorse. It was the only chance the sugar cakes had of surviving until he returned to distribute them. Swinging Elena up so he could carry her like a proper romantic hero, he gave the Gaggle a dashing bow and made his escape.


	3. Chapter 3

Once safely down the hall and in the linen closet, he set Elena down on her feet just long enough to rearrange their embrace. After another kiss, Elena heaved a great sigh and put her head down on her arm, her face against his neck.

"How bad is it?"

"It's been worse," she replied with a muffled sigh. "They got out in time, mostly."

"Are we keeping any this time around?" he asked, rubbing his cheek against the softness of her hair to make its jasmine scent fill his nose.

"Haldan and Harma," she answered, moving her arms from around his neck to worm her hands around his waist. He lowered her to stand on his boots, hunching a little to let his chin rest on the top of her head.

"They were being raised by their grandparents, and now their grandfather will need nursing for some time…."

"Mmmm," Garad answered, feeling her press her ear closer to his chest. She often told him she liked to hear him rumble, and he loved to indulge her in her fancies. "Which ones are they?"

"Do you have to ask?"

"Mmm," he said again. "So Boromir's got himself a matching set this time."

"I wasn't joking about Beth," she sighed. "Have I mentioned I'm seriously considering treason?"

"Not this week," he answered, kissing her curls. "Come then, let us jolly Beth, before my Captain can flatter his famished way through the children's treats."

Garad returned to the Royal presence with Elena on one arm and Beth's contributions to spoiling the coming meal on the other. He knocked again, wondering if the Warden of the Door was Harma or Haldan.

To his surprise, one of the farmers opened the door, politely offering to carry the basket for him. Garad let him, wishing to find a comfortable place by the fire to sit with Elena and entertain the Gaggle. She squeezed his arm, directing his attention to Boromir.

He was on one knee beside the Door Warden, the other twin still in his arms, all three of their heads together in deepest conspiracy. Boromir was whispering, the children were nodding, and the Door Warden held a pair of embroidered slippers, one in each hand.

Garad shook his head. He would never understand why Boromir was so insistent everyone should wear shoes in his presence, but as it drove Faramir to most entertaining distraction, Garad had never asked why. He just enjoyed it, and did his best to duck when the punches started flying.

"Haldan," Elena murmured, identifying the Warden as the child turned his determined chin to look at their princess. Boromir was whispering something that had the twins nodding, and then Haldan was off, marching up to where Liel still sat, happily burdened by the sleeping baby.

The little fellow held them out to her, looking at her expectantly.

"My hands are full," she told him gently. 'But I thank you."

"I'll help you," he told her matter of factly, and proceeded to do just that, glancing behind her first to check with Boromir to see if he'd carried out his mission correctly.

Liel turned her head to look at Boromir, provoking a dismayed cluck from her hair dressers. Man and boy greeted her raised eyebrow with expressions of epic innocence. With a sigh, she straightened her head again, murmuring an apology to her ersatz hand maidens. Boromir came to sit beside her, bringing Harma from his hip to his lap as he did so.

Elena laid her head against his arm and Garad knew what she was thinking. This was how it should be; only the children they were raising should be of their own blood, the next generation of Princes and Princesses who would lead Gondor. It might yet be, with the grace of the Valar and one lucky fishbone to choke the right throat. No wonder there had been fireworks from the Steward, for Denethor couldn't bear to share Boromir with his own brother, let alone a wife, or worse, children who would command their father's heart above all else.

"Do you not think Her Grace has pretty feet?" Boromir asked Haldan.

"They're big," the boy answered with certainty.

"From the mouths of babes," Osgiliath laughed. She signaled to her hair-dressers this time, letting them save their work before kissing Boromir.

Garad turned to look for his Captain. Faramir was smiling like a happy Man, a sugar cake he'd managed to cajole from the basket forgotten in his hand as he looked at his brother. He was seated in the big chair by the hearth like a Prince in his throne, surrounded by Elena's Gaggle, his students and the deferential adults.

No, Denethor would not have been pleased by what he had found under the Dome of the Stars, and not for the first time, Garad decided the Steward of Gondor was the greatest fool in the kingdom. What more could a Man want than what was offered here?

Another knock sounded on the door, and this time, Garad answered it. Damrod and Beregond stood outside, each juggling more trays sent up from the kitchen, lest they should grow faint while they waited for dinner.

"There you are," he greeted his missing Square mates, making no move to help them with their burden, merely stepping aside and holding the door wide for them. Bear managed to tread on his foot as he went by, but Garad knew the lanky young Man with the handsome smile and wayward hair wouldn't lack for assistance long. As he'd expected, the Gaggle took one look, and descended en masse, threatening to smother Beregond with their giggling helpfulness.

Damrod surrendered his trays to the stragglers, then made his bow to the Princess.

"More cubs?" he asked her, raising an eyebrow at the Twins. The boys were frowning up at him, uncertain what Damrod's intrusion into this fragile new world of theirs meant. They would learn soon enough that Damrod meant learning to carve whistles out of wood, and how to 'tickle up" a fish supper with your fingers, and the best pirate stories in all of Gondor.

"Sergeant Damrod, may I present Harma and Haldan?" Liel introduced.

"No," Haldan protested. "That's wrong!"

"It is?" Her Grace asked, looking mystified.

"It's Haldan and Harma," the boy corrected firmly, his younger brother nodding in agreement.

"Is that how it works?" she said, but she was talking more to Boromir than the boy pressing down the raised embroidery stitches and glass beads on the toes of her slippers with his index fingers.

"Sometimes, but it depends on why you're asking," Boromir grinned, collecting another kiss.

"For example, when it comes time to buy a round, it is Faramir and Boromir," Faramir elaborated. "But when it's served, it's Boromir and then Faramir."

Garad laughed with the rest of them, more for knowing the truth was the opposite. Countless times he had seen Faramir waiting with full mug for Boromir to sit down with his own, so they could eat together. It was more than affection, it was a careful strategy. If Boromir knew Faramir would wait for Boromir before breaking his fast, Boromir would come to the table while the food was still warm on both their plates.

"Age and skill before youth and bluster," Boromir replied, standing up with Harma still balanced on his hip. "Right, Sergeant?"

"I keep telling them that, Oh My Captain-General," the veteran Ranger sighed. "But somehow they never seem to hear me."

"Oh, they hear you," Boromir answered, heading toward where the Gaggle was pressing Beregond hard, forcing him back toward the hearth-wall half a step at a time: "They just don't listen."

"Oh, we listen," Faramir countered. "It's not our fault we can't make sense out of your rambling dotage!"

Rearranging himself against Elena, Garad wondered how Boromir would retaliate. Normally, the wrestling match would be on, but there was Harma and his injured leg to consider, and the expression of mute appeal Beregond was sending Boromir's way. The young Ranger knew his Square mates would enjoy watching him try to extricate himself from the Gaggle far too much to help him out, but Sunshine was a notoriously soft touch.

"Would you like a honey cake?" Boromir asked Harma, using the boy's eager nod to bring him to the edge of the Gaggle. The question got a few of the girl's attention, and they turned to look up at Boromir as he rifled through the basket they were supposed to be minding.

"Has your Captain left us any?" he demanded, turning to Beregond with a frown.

Taking the lifeline thrown his way, Beregond hastened toward Boromir to make a show of looking in the basket.

"He's left a few for us," he told Boromir, shaking his head in mock disgust, half-unwrapping one of the smaller cakes, leaving the paper as a dish for Harma's little hands to grab. With the child thus occupied, Garad saw Beregond reach out to touch his toes. A friendly tickle, yes, but also the actions of a conscientious Man, making sure those toes were warm and had feeling. A moment later, Boromir was transferring Harma to Beregond, giving him the child and his cast to act as a shield the Gaggle would respect far more than his modesty.

"I think Her Grace might like a cake," Boromir suggested, turning to the girls. "I know Haldan would."

The Gaggle hesitated, rather uncertain about the imposing Man looking down at them as well as reluctant to leave such easy prey as Beregond. Then Boromir smiled at them, picking up the basket and holding it out so the two closest girls could each take a handle.

They did of course, moving to the bidding of that smile in the same way half-dead Men would drag themselves back into ranks to stand with their General until death or victory was theirs.

Their departure, and the sudden revelation of Boromir's charm, gave Beregond breathing room, and he retreated, moving back toward the hearth so he could skirt the table, adding its protection to that provided by the child contentedly dribbling buttery crumbs and sugar down both their fronts. His attempt was foiled by the very Man who engineered it, Boromir's hand snatching Beregond's belt and pulling him away from his objective.

Garad didn't catch the soft words Boromir said to Bear as he escorted them to the other side of the table, before sending him off in the opposite direction to hide behind Garad and Elena. Whatever Boromir had said, it had made Bear frown, a sight rarely seen.

He looked down at Elena, and seeing she had caught it too, trusted her to run the interference with her minions in the Gaggle while he used tickling Harma's vulnerable little toes as his excuse to get close to Beregond. Under cover of the child's happy squeal, Garad asked, "What did he say?"

"Stay away from the fire," Beregond murmured, and the hair stood up on the back of Garad's neck. He could have meant it simply enough, the battlefield intuition that had saved so many reacting to what could have been a dangerous stumble. But if it had just been that, Faramir wouldn't be looking at his brother like a hawk who had just sighted a rabbit.

Glancing back at Beregond, he shook his head slightly. Harma seemed to sense their mood, offering the consolation of a bite of his soggy, nearly finished treat to Beregond.

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry," Beregond said, finding his smile again. "You finish it for me."

Garad was duly offered a bite, but just shook his head with a smile of his own. Suddenly, he had no appetite, either.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Faramir hadn't bothered to go to bed, settling down at his map table with his notes and the statements taken from the refugees and survivors. With Boromir leaving for Rohan in a few hours time, he knew from experience he would not find sleep quickly. He knew better than try to snatch a few winks in the short period of exhausted quiet between now and wishing his brother farewell one more wretched time. He'd be useless as well as a bastard for the rest of the day if he tried to sleep now, and besides, he had work to do. Better to stay up and get a nap through the heat of the day.

A quiet, yowling sort of yawning sigh took his attention away from the organization of his papers, and he reached a hand out over the arm of his chair. A moment later, the soft-solid warmth of his dog's head was pushing into his palm. He scratched automatically, making sure to pay attention to the base of her ears, his fingers long since trained to their duties by her grandmother.

"Let us see what we have here," he muttered to the dog, shifting his chair a little so she could rest her heavy muzzle on his knee as he needed his hand for other things. Taking up a stick of drawing chalk, he referred to his notes and then leaned forward to look down upon all of Gondor, as Gondor had once been.

He worked quickly, marking the places of the known attacks on the carefully cut and dyed pieces of slate and subtly textured jasper and granite that came together, perfectly cut and matched into a topographical, three dimensional map of the Southern realms of Elendil's kingdom of Eriador.

Putting the chalk back into its holder, he considered what the marks revealed when taken all together. There was nothing out of the ordinary with a typical raider's pattern, all in the borderlands, where there were inevitable gaps in the coverage between the patrols of the Riddermark and Gondor's outposts.

The farms there really should be abandoned, or drawn together behind walls of dirt and sod at the least, but the people who lived there refused to give up their homes and way of life. Many of them boasted blood even older in Middle Earth than his own, descended from the Mariners who had established colonies while Numenor was in her glory. The land wasn't rich, though the rivers were, and the marshes were still harvested for their peat. In the danker parts, so was the evil-smelling black tar still coveted to protect the hulls and ropes of ships that plied – or raided – the Anduin and the harbors of the Belfalas and Gondor.

"Stay away from the river…" he muttered, returning to scratching Malta's ears. "But which one? The Anduin? The Entwash?"

Any one of a thousand tributaries large and small between Rohan and Ithilien could be 'the river' that had so spooked Boromir. It was maddening how Boromir suppressed his Sight, how he refused to learn to use it as the tool it was meant to be, openly scoffing at it, and yet unquestionably relying on it, as he had earlier that night with Beregond.

He still hadn't learned what Boromir had told Bear, though he had tried. Garad, Boromir, and Beregond had all turned into garrulous clams, talking about everything else when he tried to find out what had passed between them.

Sighing, he put the stack of paper neatly in the narrow, upright basket lashed to the table leg for such storage and smacked a fist into his palm in frustration.

"We are missing something," he told the dog, who stretched out to lick his wrist sympathetically. Her wet nose snuffled and poked along his arms, reminding him that if his hands were empty, they should be turned to petting her. "But what?"

With an apologetic pat to Malta, he stood up, trying to get a better perspective. Touching the chalk marks with his fingertips, he loosened the focus of his gaze into a blur of white wall and bookshelves. Solidly anchored by Malta's massive head coming to rest on top of one boot as she made herself at home under the table, he let his thoughts wander along with his touch.

Memories came first, of the birthday gift the table had been, of Boromir and _Osthiril_ arm in arm, smiling at him proudly as they produced the gift the whole City seemed to have labored on. Then the cool, dampness of Henneth Annûn came to him, the familiar smell of its wet stone and moss, the surprising snugness of its protection….

Pain jolted up his arm, sharp, burning, and he blinked into focus to find the Anduin under his hand, like a black trench. Gritting his teeth, he welcomed the pain, tried to follow it, understand it. A burning river? The archives spoke of such things, of Oroduin vomiting molten rock that flowed like water, destroying all in its path….

He moved his hand back toward Mordor, defiantly rendered in purest white for its origin and for what it might be again, in the wildest dreams of madmen. The pain faded, and frowning, he swept it back toward the West, wincing as the burning returned. The faintest sound tickled his senses, and he threw himself after it, digging his fingers into the stone to capture the fire there. Screaming…. Horses? Men?

The floor under him disappeared, his stomach somersaulted as he fell, the screaming rising, resolving into –

The Noise.

Gasping, blinking, trembling with the shock of being jolted from his trance, Faramir crashed back into his chair. Malta was there immediately, one big hind-foot on top of his boot, the two front ones on his knees as she licked his face. Wrapping his arms around her solid sureness, he buried his face in the welcoming place between her neck and shoulder.

The Noise continued, as it always did, and Faramir swore into Malta's coat, calling his brother everything but a Child of the Valar. He had learned to block out every other sound early in his childhood, or he never would have slept, but The Noise had always defeated him. It could not be ignored, only endured until it finally ceased. In the wild of his youth, he had tried to provoke The Noise from a willing Lady or two, until the dreadful day he had walked into the rose garden at exactly the wrong moment, learning beyond all doubt that it was his brother who produced The Noise. He had fled before learning just how it was provoked, and in dark moments unwanted speculation would occasionally haunt him.

Groaning, he let go of Malta and sat back in his chair. Pressing the heels of his palms into his closed eyes until he saw sparks, he was grateful for Malta's methodical grooming, the cool licks on the backs of his hands and fingers chasing away the memory of the cruel heat.

Doing his best to recall himself to his task, he struggled with the puzzle pieces his Sight had given him. Horses and Men, to the West….

Could Boromir have mistaken who was in danger? He traveled to Rohan, not Faramir; Faramir went to the North and East…. But if he didn't cross the Anduin, he too, would travel West….

The Noise changed, shattering his reasoning completely. Malta gave a growling sort of whimpering complaint, clearly expressing her agreement with his feelings on the intruding sound. Lowering his hands to embrace her once again, he submitted his chin and neck to her attentions, willing himself to relax.

"It's a wonder I survived childhood," he grumbled to her.

'Children,' his mind corrected, and his fragile ease fled. The Twins! They were here, in the Citadel, just down the hall, quartered with their blessedly drugged Grandparents.

"Fuck!" he swore, abandoning his chair to lead the ecstatic Malta out of the room at a run.

"Good evening, Gentlemen," Faramir said, leaning against the wall with one shoulder and crossing the foot of his resting leg over the foot of the bracing one. "Or should I say 'good morning'?

The Twins froze in front of him, Haldan whirling to face him, to put himself in front of his brother. Harma was slower, awkward on his crutches, hampered by his cast. Faramir could see Haldan was torn between being a protective barrier and making sure his younger brother by all of an hour didn't fall.

Taking the decision out of his hands, Faramir pushed himself off the wall and took a long stride that let him scoop the injured child up. The little crutches fell away as Harma instinctively grabbed for him, his arms tight around Faramir's neck.

Staying on one knee, Faramir stretched out his neck, trying to loosen Harma's strangle hold a little. Haldan looked at him defiantly, one of the crutches wielded like a weapon in his hands.

'A natural polearm fighter,' Faramir thought, giving both children a smile as he signaled Malta to sit at his side.

"I won't ask you why you're awake at this hour," he told them, his voice sympathetic. "It takes practice to sleep through the racket those two can make."

"They're all right?" Harma asked, with a disbelieving frown.

"They're playing," Faramir replied smoothly, remembering the gentle euphemisms of his mother.

"They're loud," Haldan stated flatly.

Faramir chuckled. "I know, but you mustn't tell them they are. You see, they think they're being quiet."

"They do?" Haldan asked, his eyes widening in consternation.

"Actually, they are being quiet," Faramir sighed. "They're usually much louder, when we don't have guests."

"What are they doing?" Harma said his grip loosening as he relaxed.

"They're tickling each other," Faramir explained. Taking aim on Haldan with his peripheral vision, he struck quickly, going low under the raised crutch for a lightening fast tummy-tickle, the kind that had made him shriek with delighted indignation when he had been their age.

Haldan gratified him with a proper squeal, made even sweeter by Harma's giggle and Malta's encouraging bark. She held her place at his side, front paws prancing a little in their place, begging to be allowed to frolic with the puppies. Faramir thought it an excellent idea, but not here, not when The Noise was approaching its inevitable, highly disturbing conclusion.

Picking up the fallen crutch, Faramir handed it to Harma, switching the child over to his hip, the little cast resting across his stomach. Holding his free arm out to Haldan, he grinned.

"There's only one place you can't hear them," he explained as Haldan accepted the invitation to perch on his other hip. "Let's go see what Beth's hiding in her pantry, and by the time we come back, they should have quieted down."

"You can't tickle someone for too long,' Harma said with all the grave authority of a grey-haired elder, his brother nodding in agreement with him.

"You can't?" Faramir asked, breaking into a jog that delighted Malta.

"If you do, they pee their pants," Haldan explained with the solemn voice of experience.

"What are you three doing up this early?" Boromir demanded, frowning at the yawning little boys sitting in front of the fire, their backs propped against the massive golden belly of Faramir's latest Malta, a grand-daughter of the original, whose mother had escaped for a mad fling with some stray Oliphant.

"We couldn't sleep," Faramir explained, flipping the strips of ham he had frying on the legged-griddle over the coals he had coaxed from the carefully banked small hearth fire. In true Ranger style, his little brother and the two urchins who had kidnapped him showed ample evidence of having started their meal with dessert.

"Did you pee your pants?" Haldan asked him

"Did I what?" Boromir gaped.

"Pee your pants," Faramir repeated. "You know, did you lose your tickle fight?"

Boromir felt his face turn hot, and knew it must be as bright red as the coals his grinning brother was lazily fanning with a broad strip of kindling wood.

"Ah…. No, I didn't pee my pants," Boromir said, giving Faramir a quelling look that was entirely ignored.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" Harma wanted to know, leaning his head back against the warm ribcage of Malta III, who stretched herself around to lick the sweet crumbs and butter of the raided honey cakes from his cheek, her enormous tongue seeming to engulf his entire face. Harma turned his head so she could get the other side, and Boromir grinned. A dog was as good as a bath, whether you were five or twenty-five, whatever Women said.

"I did sleep," Boromir told them. "But I told you, I'm going to visit my friend Theodred today."

"Why can't he come see you?" Haldan asked, leaving the dog to come to Boromir, reaching up imperiously.

"It's his birthday,' Boromir lied, picking Haldan up and lifting him high over his head. Cascading giggles became shrieks of laughter when he lowered Haldan enough to bury his face in the child's stomach, wallowing his nose and chin against it as he blew a great raspberry before lipping "bites" into the jiggling belly, leaving the sleeping tunic covering it damp with spit Boromir would blame on the dog if called to account for it.

"Hush!" Liel's voice commanded firmly, somehow managing the trick of keeping her tone low and still heard through the commotion. "You will wake Beth!"

"Oops," Boromir said, with a wink at Haldan. Liel shook her head, but she was smiling, her arms bare in her nightdress, her hair loose down her back, still bearing its passion knots. Boromir had to use all of his resolve not to instantly sweep her up in his arms and carry her back to their bed.

"Ssssh!" Haldan giggled in his ear, distracting him just in time. Shushing immediately became the order of the day, and Boromir settled Haldan back down with his brother, Malta obligingly rearranging herself. Boromir sat down on one of the low benches angled to catch the warmth from the hearth fire without enduring its full searing blast. With a happy, garumphing groan, Malta nosed the boys before stretching herself out, her head pillowed comfortably on Boromir's booted foot.

Thus secured, Boromir had to lean forward to get his arms around Liel as she went by him, pulling her onto his lap. A kiss silenced her fussing before it began, and she gave in quickly to the cuddle, her bare feet balanced on the ever-patient Malta.

"Come now," he chided, nuzzling his nose against her temple. "You know how Mir gets when he's cooking. Let him be."

"Are you leaving too, Grace?" A wistful little voice asked Liel, and Boromir had to take a quick look to confirm it was Harma who had asked.

"No," she answered, using one of those nimble feet to tickle Harma's shoulder with her long toes. "We are staying here. We must help your Nan, remember?"

"And you must help _Osthiril_," Faramir chimed in. "For I must also leave soon, and you will be the Men she has to turn to, until Boromir and I return."

"You can make sure she remembers to wear her shoes and her slippers," Boromir said, confident the seed had been planted in fertile ground. She gave him a cross look, but he kissed it away, knowing he had killed two birds with one stone. The boys had a job within their abilities, and she would have to protect her lovely feet for their sake.

"When are you coming back?" Harma asked, squirming around with care for his cast to look up at him, his hands clutched in Malta's long fur to keep his balance.

"As soon as we may," Boromir answered. "I need to speak with Theoden King as well, and that can take a long time, as all his retainers and all his Men think they need to say something, too.

Harma's face fell, and Boromir braced Liel with his arms around her waist as she leaned over to pick him up. Settling Woman and child on his lap, Boromir saw Haldan had somehow come to roost under Faramir's arm where his brother sat on the hearthstones. He began to get a faint suspicion they were being double-teamed by experts, but all his amusement fled as Haldan asked Faramir, "Where are you going?"

Faramir considered his answer for a moment and then said, "I am going to go see what happened to your farms, so we can stop it from happening to someone else."

Haldan seemed to melt into Faramir's side, attaching himself much like Harma was attaching himself to Liel. Boromir rubbed Harma's small back, remembering all too well what it had felt like when Faramir would hold him like that, as if he somehow had the power to make the world right.

"I'm a Ranger," Faramir told the top of Haldan's head, for the child's face was pressed hard into his shoulder. "Protecting people is what I do."

For a long time, all Boromir heard was the crackling of the ham, his own breathing hard in his ears, and the silence of tiny, shaking shoulders under his brother's hand. To his credit, Haldan managed to say something, though Faramir had to lean his ear down to the child's face to hear it.

"No," his brother said. "Not yet. When you are older, you may come with me, but now, your duties are here, with your Nan and with _Osthiril_. Besides, Harma must finish healing."

A small fist worked its way between Haldan's face and Faramir's shoulder, brushing the tip of Faramir's nose as he bent over the child. Something else was said, too garbled and quiet for Boromir to hear clearly, but he could guess. In the pre-dawn dark and the shadows of the coals and the oil lamps, Faramir brought Denethor sharply to mind. Boromir could almost feel his father's arm around his own young shoulders, wiping away his tears before he rode off to war, leaving Boromir to protect and help his mother, and after Faramir had been born, to guard his little brother as he guarded his own life.

The memory stirred recent anger, and Boromir took refuge from it by kissing the bent head of the twice-orphaned child Liel held. For all the danger and the grief their lives held, there was joy and happiness also, and by the Valar, no spite of Denethor for his lost love would take it from them!

"Come," Faramir coaxed, kissing Haldan's brow. "The ham is nearly done. Do you remember where we set the eggs? I need them now."

"Let us get the plates," Liel murmured to Harma. Malta rolled up on her chest, waiting for Liel to rise before trotting behind her to the cupboard in the darker part of the kitchen.

Boromir lingered a moment on the bench, watching Faramir show Haldan how to crack an egg into a separate bowl, taking care to make sure it was wholesome before adding it to the larger bowl, lest the one ruin all. He remembered their mother teaching him the same thing, then showing him how to float the shells she could split so evenly in a broad bowl of water.

It had puzzled him why she would do this, until she showed him how to take a long, hollow piece of straw from the rack set aside for the hot-boxes in the kitchen and blow the shells along in a bobbing race. It had taken him some time to get the trick of blowing steadily enough to move the shell without capsizing it, and even longer for him to teach Faramir, when it had been his turn to learn.

It made him smile, remembering Faramir's fierce concentration as he tried so hard to keep the bobbing shell-boats steady. The memory swelled, replacing the fire and Faramir as he was now. Fragile shells swirling, swaying dangerously, the calm water of the bowl rendered into a storm of giant waves by the wind from the straw….

He heard Faramir calling him, crying in his frustration, begging Boromir to let him rescue his toy as the shell swamped and sank….

The clink of plates saved him. Rising, he went to help Liel, ignoring the frowning look of concern from his little brother, all too grown up now.

He took Harma from Liel, rather than the plates she had expected. He answered her questioning eyebrow and her worried frown with a wink and a kiss, then looked at the boy he held.

"Do you know where the bread-basket is?" he asked. Harma shook his head 'No', two middle fingers tucked in his mouth.

"Right here," Boromir answered, earning another "Hush!" from Liel and another scream of delight from Harma with a snorting nose-dive into the boy's stomach.

Boromir left for Rohan later than he'd planned, and with a larger send-off than he'd planned. Liel stood on the gate watching him, as she had so often with Faramir, only this time, she held Harma on her hip and Faramir held Haldan, Elena and Garad and the rest of Faramir's Square with them.

Faramir had wanted to ride out with him, saying his mare needed the exercise, but Boromir had said no. He had never liked saying goodbye in pieces, and didn't know if he could manage it this time.

With a last wave, he turned away and spurred his horse, knowing they would not leave the wall until they could no longer see him, not even through Faramir's spy glass. He would have to waste time stopping at the garrisons along the West road, making his declared reason of an inspection tour because of the raids plausible to his father's spies, at least until he made the last turn into Rohan.

Maybe there, he could finally get away from these damned dreams he couldn't quite remember, but left him restless and afraid. They never seemed to pursue him in Meduseld, as if the Golden Hall could keep them at bay. He hoped its magic would work again this time, so he could try to figure out what his mind was trying to tell him with a clear head.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

A/N Well, since efforts to repost the story again under Brothers of Gondor, Dithen, _again_ hasn't resolved the problem of it not showing up on new stories and or just in, I'm just going to continue with posting it here. I don't know, sorry about all this confusion for you reviewers. But please do try to continue, Eleanor is already …. Disappointed about FFNET throwing fits just when she decides to finally post her work. Figures…. Anyway , onwards with Chapter Five!

Carolyn

The sound of chalk on slate was soothing, rhythmic, balm for Faramir's bad temper. Sleep had not been his friend since Boromir had left for Rohan two days ago, haunted by dreams he could not chase down and grasp the meaning from.

The chalk he was using was yellow, and he laid it down in precise, overlapping lines, a golden rectangle on the heart of the Pelennor. When it was as large as it could be without breaking out of the arbitrary border he had assigned to it, Faramir put the chalk back in its holder, a habit of tidiness ingrained in him since early childhood.

Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the rectangle. Frowning down at it, he cocked his head, then put his elbows on the edge of the map table and rested his chin on his fists. Still nothing came to him to explain why he had needed to draw this random geometric shape. He tried to relax his gaze, to coax meaning from the part of his brain that spoke to him when he was sleeping.

It worked, for a few moments, and then he was spitting chalk and the rock taste of slate out of his mouth. Blinking, he realized he had licked his index finger to clean away a short length of the rectangle, and when it had gone dry from the dust, he'd stuck the finger back in his mouth to wet it again.

"Fuck," he muttered, hauling himself up and over to his water jug and wash basin. Luckily, he had been alone. Had Boromir been here, he'd be pissing himself laughing….

Thinking of Boromir sobered him, and he washed his hands and rinsed his mouth quickly, using the waste water in the bowl to water the mints he kept in his window. He took a generous pinch of the fragrant green leaves back with him to where the drinking water sat corked and waiting in its unfired clay jug and wet wool cover.

Taking up a waiting cup, he crushed the herb into it, pouring the water over it. He swirled the two together, thinking with longing of the cold, clear water of the fountains and faucets brought to Minas Tirith down the Mindolluin aqueducts. The water of from the Cisterns of Osgiliath was clean and wholesome, but did not carry the wild tang of the mountain he loved. There were barrels of it in the City, in the houses of healing and in the brewer's hall, and some of it here, in Her Grace's private kitchens and nursing hall. It too was kept for brewing and the sick, but it would be given to him willingly enough….

Sighing, he settled for taking a slice of the dried, sugared lemon in his apothecary cabinet and adding that into the water along with the mint. While he was in the cabinet, he picked one of the shallow bowls he used for mixing tisanes. Setting his drink down in the place built into the map table for it, he returned to the water jug and made himself a finger bowl, hoping his sleeping mind would take the hint. Valar, but he hated the taste of chalk….

Dismissing unpleasant memories from his mind before they had a chance to fully form, he returned to his contemplation of his big, useless, thoroughly annoying blob of yellow in the middle of the Pelennor fields.

SCENE BREAK

"Ssssh!"

Blinking, Faramir roused himself back into the Now. He turned toward the shusher, and discovered Beregond in the open doorway, his knees taking a hell of a beating from Malta's tail where she stood in front of him. The dog looked inordinately proud of herself, giving him a great fanged smile as she displayed her newest toy: Haldan astride her back, leaning forward onto her broad shoulders and clutching her thick neck ruff to keep his balance, grinning like all the candy in the world was his.

"It's all right," he told them, and in truth it was. He had gotten nothing for his efforts but the dull throb of a headache building at the back of his eyes. "Come in."

"You don't mind, do you?" Beregond asked, bending his knees and almost crab-walking into the room so he could bring Harma safely with him, the child high on his shoulders in what was no doubt a sadly lacking consolation ride.

"I could use the company," Faramir answered with a smile. "And another pair of eyes."

Malta brought Haldan to him, and he obliged her by taking the child off her back and putting him on his lap.

"What do you think?" Faramir asked them all, gesturing at the pattern he had made by erasing precise blocks of the yellow chalk with a finger dipped in water to reveal squares of the glistening black slate he had so painstakingly covered.

"Is it a game?" Haldan asked, looking around the table for counters.

"I don't think so," Faramir answered honestly, scooting his chair over to make room for Beregond and Harma to sit down beside them. "What do you make of it, Bear?"

Beregond shrugged, careful of Harma's wood-braced and bandaged encased leg as they settled into the chair Faramir had pulled around for them.

"It looks like the tiles on my parent's front stoop," he answered. "Or one of my mother's weaving patterns. What do you think, Lad?"

Harma stood up as best he could to lean over the map table, braced by Beregond's careful grip and his own small, chubby little hands spread flat on the table. He gave the question grave consideration.

"They're squares!" he finally pronounced, with a nod of certainty.

"Very good!" Beregond congratulated. "Now what do all the squares make together?"

Harma thought about that a moment, too, then answered with equal certainty, "A rectangle!"

"Right!" Beregond confirmed, shifting his grip to hold Harma with one arm, using his free hand to block off half the drawing from top left to bottom right corners. "Haldan, can you tell me what this makes?"

Haldan spared it a glance, busy making his own figures on the slate with Faramir's red coloured chalk. "It's a sail," he answered.

"It's not!" his brother corrected. "It's a triangle!"

"So are sails," Haldan replied, unperturbed. To prove his point, he left off making a herd of stick horses to make a stick boat of wobbling lines across the plains of Rohan with a tall, skinny sail attached to a single mast. "Aren't they, Mir?"

"Some are," Faramir answered with a smile, reminded so strongly of Boromir he found himself kissing the top of Haldan's head. "And some are squares, while others are rectangles."

A knock on the doorframe announced the arrival of the Princess of Osgiliath. When Faramir and Beregond both made to stand, she waved off the formal gallantry, but still waited to receive a formal nod of permission to enter. She was scrupulous about that, and had been for the eight years he had lived under her roof. This room was Faramir's, and his alone by a rare, royal decree. Barring threat of life, none entered here without his express permission, not even his brother.

"There you are," she said briskly, coming to stand between Faramir and Beregond, a hand on each of their shoulders.

"What is this?" she asked, looking down at the map table.

"A boat," Haldan answered matter-of-factly, busy colouring in his little ship and sail with a green chalk.

"I don't know." Faramir answered her with a sigh. He gestured toward the now smudged gold chalk and dried black slate squares. "Does it bring anything to your mind?"

Her hand shifted higher on Faramir's shoulder, where the muscles of his neck met his collarbone, her strong fingers digging into him.

"Bees," she answered tersely, her grip tightening painfully.

"I will take care that we are not stung, _Osthirilnin_," he promised, putting his hand on top of hers and squeezing it both to reassure her and relieve his own pain.

The remark got all of her attention. Faramir heard Beregond's sigh of relief as Liel's hand left the lanky ranger's neck to fuss with Faramir's hair.

"See that you do take care," she instructed sternly. "Begin with a haircut. You cannot hit your target if you cannot see it!"

"Yes, Your Grace," he replied gently, and she sighed in reply.

"I've come to see if Haldan and Harma would like to come with me to visit their grandfather. He is awake today, for a little while."

They did of course, with clamouring cries of excitement. With Harma on her hip and Haldan pulling on her hand, she stopped in the doorway and looked back.

"A haircut," she ordered. "For both of you."

They waited until she was well down the hall before looking at each other and simultaneously reaching for the place on their shoulders where handprint bruises were no doubt forming.

"How does Sunshine stand such brutal domesticity?" Beregond wondered aloud.

"Wouldn't you be the one who'd like to find out?" Faramir demanded, kicking the side of Beregond's boot in a companionable sort of way. "How goes your pursuit of the fair Lady Imeliel?"

Blushing, Beregond shook his head. "Never fall in love with a spy, Oh My Captain," he advised.

"She's not a spy. Not really. She just – keeps an eye on her cousin, and my father's court."

Beregond gave him a sour look, then grew thoughtful, his glance returning to the checkerboard drawing.

"Bees…" he murmured. "Wasn't Her Grace's her son…?"

"Stung to death when he was three," Faramir confirmed.

"And doesn't she have…?"

"The Sight of Numenor? About as much as my brother does."

"Hunh," Beregond grunted, leaning his chair back on two legs. "No honey for you on this trip, Oh My Captain, no matter what Damrod says, or how pissy you are in the mornings!"

Faramir gave him the smile he deserved, but his heart wasn't in it. He had never before turned his Sight at a mission, or the people who would join him on it, and not been able to feel the shadows of them in his future beyond the task, however faintly. This time, however hard he tried, he couldn't see anything past those damned gold and black squares.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

A/N Many thanks to the wonderful reviewers who keep us writing and posting! To answer Qs, this is 20 yrs before FOTR, in our AU Osgiliath has not yet fallen, though it is in a fairly ruinous state. Boromir has his HQ here as it's the front line. Faramir when 12 yrs of age, 'escaped' Minas Tirith and his father to live with Boromir and Liel.

Also, I need to say, I didn't write a word of any of this. My scenes are later when we get to the battle bits, and then not all of them. If you like Eleanor's writing go check out her M7 stories at www dot bedlam dot com.

Thanks all! Carolyn

"Are you certain he is well?" Eowyn demanded, frowning at the thick oak door that was utterly failing to mute the sound of Boromir snoring.

"You ask me that every time he visits," Theodred laughed. "And every time, I tell you he is fine!"

"And every time he is not!" she fumed at him. "Did you not see how he arrived?"

"Leave be, _Nanadithen_," he said, seeking to distract her from plaguing Boromir with a much disliked nick-name.

Her foot connected solidly with his shin. "I'll little mother you!" she threatened, lapsing into the Common tongue she had picked from her brother and his reprobate friends.

"Ow!" he yelped, hopping on one foot away from her. "Damn it, will you stop wearing your boots in the hall?" It would be different if she had nothing else to wear, but they all gave her slippers at any chance they could find or invent.

"I will stop when you louts remember to watch your feet – and your mouths!" she replied fiercely. He fought down his urge to smile fondly at her, for his shin's sake as well as for her pride. For all that she was still a child, she was the Lady of the Hall, and she took those responsibilities with a seriousness he wished he could spare her.

What's more, she was right; something was troubling the big idiot. He'd arrived in the brittle cold of the deep night, he and his horse both caked in dried mud and blood that had thankfully turned out to belong mostly to others.

Normally the first to laugh at himself in such circumstances, Boromir had been tight-lipped and downright surly, sure signs that he had quarreled with his father yet again. He would not have the patience for Eowyn's eagle-eyes and mother-henning until the problem had been wormed out of him, probably through the agency of several horns of mead.

"I tell you, he had a hard journey!" Eowyn insisted.

"And I tell you, you have a crush on him!" Theodred teased, hoping to distract her attention.

She sniffed, as the effect of a snort of derision would have been lost compared to Boromir's cacophony.

"Him? He's worse than Eomer and you put together. If he were not the Prince of Gondor, I would have made him sleep with the dogs last night!"

She would have, too, Theodred knew. "Do not call him 'prince'," he reminded her.

She rolled her eyes. "That is what he is! Until he is the Steward, he is a prince! It is ridiculous, you know that! No Man, not even the most ancient Elf-blooded Numenorean lives nine hundred years!"

"I know that, and you know that, and I'm sure even Boromir knows that, but please, Winnie, don't call him 'prince'."

He managed to avoid most of the kick this time, the hard toe of her boot glancing off his other shin.

"He'll think you're flirting," Theodred warned with a grin. She rolled her eyes again, and he changed his tack. "Father will think you're flirting!"

That made her stop and think, though she raised her chin and tossed her hair to cover it.

"He will know better!" she insisted. "I have told you all, the Man I marry will have blue eyes!"

"Ah, yes," Theodred said, nodding solemnly. "Your dream!"

"Mother dreamed many things that came to pass!" she reminded him, her chin getting even more stubborn.

It was true, part of the heritage of Numenor they shared along with the blood of Eorl the Younger. He never scoffed at Eowyn's dreams, though Eomer poked unmerciful fun at them. Or he had, until Eowyn had grown old enough and strong enough and sly enough to make him regret his amusement.

"He is tired, Eowyna. Let him rest."

She struggled with her inclinations a moment, then sighed, reminding him very much of Boromir as she did so. "He will need to eat. He did not last night."

"I will see to it, I promise."

"Very well. I go to attend Theoden King at his breakfast, then. I will tell him our guest is… comfortable."

"If he can't hear it for himself," Theodred chuckled.

Heaving another sigh, she shook her head. "I would think he must give himself a headache."

"I am glad he can find such comfort to sleep so deeply under our roof," he told her, pleased to see the flush of pleasure along her cheeks as she took it for the compliment he had intended.

"See to it that he eats!" she reminded him as she finally took her leave, taking the length of her skirt up in one hand as she turned to go to the hall where his father would be waiting for her to eat with him. It wouldn't be long before they would have to deal with suitors, blue-eyed and otherwise, all bent on taking the beauty from the Golden Hall.

With a sigh of his own, he turned back to the door and the problem of the snoring. It was starting to get on his nerves. Accordingly, he banged his fist as loudly as he could on the door, just once.

"_Mir!_" he barked in his best imitation of Boromir's brother Faramir. "_Roll over, damn it!_"

The snoring ended on a snorting sort of bark, followed by the creaking of over-burdened bed slats, and miraculous silence.

He hoped Boromir's real problem could be dealt with as simply and quickly, but he wasn't holding out much hope of getting that lucky. Eowyn wasn't the only one who dreamed, and while the details were tantalizingly elusive to his waking memory, his hadn't been good over the last few nights, coincidently the same amount of time it would have taken Boromir to reach Edoras from Minas Tirith

Also interesting was that his father had received a messenger from the Steward of Gondor the day of the night Boromir had arrived. The Man had left Meduseld with rude haste, pleading his duties, but Theodred had not been surprised to see Boromir arrive on the messenger's heels. He would give much to know what the message from Denethor had said, but as of yet, his father had not discussed it with him.

A familiar step echoed faintly down the hall, coming closer, and he smiled. Perhaps he would not have to wait long to discover what had brought Boromir to Edoras.

"Ah, I thought I would find you here, Thee!" his father's cheerful voice called to him. "Our Bear is still asleep?"

"He is, Father, and I would leave him peacefully in his cave until he lumbers forth. He had a hard journey."

"Yes, I imagine it was," his father mused, frowning in a speculative way. "I think I would like a ride to whet my appetite for breakfast. What say you, my Son?"

"If we can sneak past Eowyn, my Lord!" he agreed, grinning.

SCENE BREAK

*Well, fuck….* Even using sign language, Garad managed to convey his amused chagrin. *It is the river they're interested in, not the farms. Looks like Sunshine was right.*

*As usual,* Faramir answered. *But if you tell him I said that, I will bust you back to the infantry!*

Garad grinned at him, laughing silently, looking like some great, lazy wolf hiding in the tall grass. *Home, then?*

Faramir hesitated, then shook his head no. *Not yet.*

Garad rolled his eyes. *Our orders were quite explicit, Oh My Captain.*

Faramir just grinned.

*Captain?*

*He did not say we could not go to the river, Lieutenant.*

Garad gave him a look that didn't need Sign or Speech to communicate the very thin ice Faramir was choosing to skate upon.

*There is more to this than we may tell from these few tracks. We will follow them, and see what it is they plan to do upon the river.* Faramir ordered.

SCENE BREAK

"She is very much like her mother," Theodred heard his father say, affection and sadness competing in his tone. "They both put their dolls away far too early…."

They had not evaded Eowyn, though she had done no more than give them a glower and a well-packed breakfast before returning to her work, while they escaped theirs for a little while.

Theodred turned toward his father, the leather flagons of beer strapped to the high back of his saddle to protect them from the heat of the horse now safely in his hands.

"Being the Lady of Edoras is a much more pleasing game than any doll," he said, handing his father one of the flagons. Theoden handed him a thick pasty in return, and he saluted his father with it before tearing into the meal.

"Yes, for Eowyna, it would be," Theoden chuckled, loosening his own reins to let his horse join Theodred's in cropping the rich green grass of the pastureland around Meduseld. More comfortable in the saddle than some Men would be at their table, they ate in companionable silence with the quickness of well-earned hunger.

Brushing crumbs from his chin, envying his father the beard Theoden was wiping with his gloved fingers, Theodred gave a contented sigh.

"Not to spoil the meal,' he said, after a moment or two of cleaning bits of meat from between his front teeth with his tongue and some slurping suction that ended in a burp hidden half-heartedly behind his fist.

"The messenger?" Theoden asked with a smile.

"Tell me he comes in answer to our concerns about the Eastfold."

Theoden shook his head with a pensive sigh. "I am hoping that is why why Boromir is here."

"We have not spoken about what brought him here," Theodred explained. "But it was in the Eastfold where he found trouble, Brigands on the West Road, in the Firien Wood, just before the Fenmarch."

Theoden frowned. "A long way to travel after battle without resting."

Theodred shrugged in reply.

"Then he comes seeking the messenger," Theoden sighed. "And takes the risk of travelling alone. I fear Rohan may soon be caught between Father and Son."

Theodred shook his head. "Boromir will not allow that to happen."

Theoden gave him a long, considering look. "And yet you send your intelligence to one, and not the other."

"Boromir is Captain-General of Gondor," Theodred reminded him. "He is in the field. I send it to the Man who needs it soonest."

'_And who will use it_,' he added silently to himself.

"Yes, and so you should," Theodred sighed. "While Rohan is the Liege Man of Gondor, it is the Captain-General who has the right to call us to arms. Let him do his duty as We do ours."

Theodred took a swig from his half-empty flagon, hiding his sigh of relief.

"You have travelled to Gondor recently," Theoden said, reaching out to pat his horse's neck, then scratch under the white mane spilling across the withers. "How did you find Our royal cousin of Osgiliath?"

Theodred blinked, lowering the flagon to frown at his father. "She is well," he hedged. "Her City still holds the river."

"But she has no heirs," Theoden answered, turning to look at him.

Theodred blinked again.

"The Steward feels it is time the succession of Osgiliath was secured."

The blood drained from Theodred's face. "He hasn't…. He doesn't expect me…"

Another thought occurred to him suddenly as he looked at his father's grinning face. "Does he offer her to you?"

Theoden laughed merrily. "No, he does not suggest she become your step-mother, nor your wife."

"Then what?"

"Eomer."

"Eomer?" Theodred repeated, knowing he was gaping like a fool of a fish at his father.

Sobering, Theoden nodded. "He indicated my nephew's youth would be attractive to Her Grace."

Theodred felt his face grow hot with anger for Boromir's sake.

"It seems Denethor has not seen the shield his son carries," Theoden said softly.

Theodred couldn't answer, looking away, torn between defending friend and family, and skirting the edge of treason.

"Boromir has carried that shield for the last five years," Theodred said. "You have seen it, I have seen it, all of Rohan and Gondor know it!"

"Perhaps Denethor feels his son has grown too serious about a youthful infatuation."

"Father, they have shared a bed for the last six years, raised Boromir's brother as if he was their son, and a pack of foster children prowl their home. They would have been long since married, if the politics of Gondor allowed them to do it without harming their people."

Theoden nodded, bringing Lightfoot closer to his son, close enough to touch Theodred's arm.

"I cannot ignore the Steward's request," Theoden explained. "But neither can he order Eomer to wed a Woman he doesn't desire, nor command a sovereign Princess against her will. I rely on you to arrange a suitable meeting and show for Denethor and the Council. Perhaps…. What do you think of taking Eowyn with you? Perhaps it is time she got to know her grandmother's people?"

Theodred shook his head. "For all I could wish her assistance in bringing her brother to polite heel, if the West road is not safe enough for Boromir to ride, I will not risk her."

His father nodded, looking relieved at the answer to his reluctant question as he scanned the horizon.

"Did the messenger say anything about the incursions you reported to the Steward?" Theodred asked.

"Not a word," Theoden sighed.

SCENE BREAK

"That is my fault," Boromir explained. "Denethor came to Osgiliath to tell me about the message, but…."

"He was distracted?" Theodred guessed.

"He arrived in the middle of the night."

"Ah. And you were…?"

"I hadn't been home in two weeks! What do you think I was doing?"

"Did he hear – well, no, stupid question."

"He walked in on us," Boromir muttered. "Like she was some barracks whore and I was a guard late for duty…."

"He what?" Theodred growled.

"I don't want to talk about it. What did his messenger say?"

"Oh, that. Your father wants Eomer to marry Liel."

Despite himself, Theodred jumped as Boromir's fist hit the table they were sitting at, sending food flying and cups spilling.

"But not a word about anything useful, or the trouble on the West road," Theodred continued. "Do you have any news to tell me about what is happening on the border?"

"Only that the raids come early this year, for no good reason." Boromir's spoon clattered against his bowl, and he leaned back in his chair, making it creak ominously. "I have sent Faramir and his Square to find out what they can."

"So that's why you're growling at anyone who spares you a glance," Theodred chided gently. "Come on, finish your food, or you'll have Eowyn on both our necks. My father wishes me to both placate the Steward and stop whatever is threatening our peoples. Let us ride to the Eastfold, find Eomer, and ride against these raiders. You may vent your spleen on them to your heart's content, my brother!"

Boromir heaved one of his great rumbling sigh, poking at his stew. Theodred decided silence was the best comfort he could offer, and had a sip of beer. It was still too early for mead, and things were much too tense for a night of revelry.

"Oh," Boromir said, the full spoon he had finally lifted from the bowl stopped halfway to his mouth. He was looking at it as if two identical lumps of carrots in a splash of broth were somehow deeply significant.

"What?" Theodred prompted, when the carrots went back into the bowl instead of Boromir's mouth.

"I have a favour to ask…."

"I only owe you a dozen or two," Theodred reminded him with a grin.

Boromir heaved another sigh, though this one brought a smile to his tired face. "I have need of two matching ponies…."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

A/N FF NET! Argh! I could say there are other words to rep. That FF! LOL I've had to remove Explaining a Romance as you all noticed, the formatting was non-existent! FFNET certainly does seem to have a vendetta against poor Eleanor! Well, to be fair, the story was pasted out of an email, I think. Eleanor doesn't have electronic copies of most of her stories, and I have them all on another computer not connected to the internet... Sigh. We'll get there and we have both been greatly heartened by the wonderful reviews! It has given Eleanor a real boost to know you all love her wonderful images of how life could have been for the men we love. It seems to me that you have to have a home to fight for, people you love, your own intimate family, not the dysfunctional one of the movies/books, though Boromir and Faramir had each other, isn't Eleanor's version SO much more satisfying a world! I know I love it! Onwards and sorry for the long A/N! - Carolyn

Chapter Seven

Faramir touched the collapsible telescope on his belt, then left it where it was. It was too risky to chance, when the glare of the sun off the glass might give their position away.

*They go toward Rohan,* Garad signed, and Faramir knew it was more to prompt his thoughts than to state the obvious.

*So do we,* Faramir answered, putting his fingers in his mouth to produce the chirruping cricket call to tell Damrod and Beregond to join them.

SCENE BREAK

"What is wrong with you?" Theodred demanded. When he didn't get an answer, he gave Boromir's shoulder a shove.

"Mmh?" Boromir grunted, looking up from the gray and black ashes he had been scratching at with a half-burnt branch.

"We've been ready to ride for half an hour," Theodred explained, dropping down to one knee beside Boromir.

"What is this?" he asked, nodding at the rectangle of squares drawn in the dirt, the remains of their night fire divided into a checkerboard of light ash and darker lumps of charcoal.

"Damned if I know," Boromir sighed. "But I can't get it out of my head."

"Too much mead," Theodred joked, keeping his worry from his expression.

"Or not enough," Boromir replied, his smile a shadow of his normal grin. "Thee…."

"Spit it out, Mir."

"We're going the wrong way."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a trail of crumbs, and we're following it like a fat goose," Boromir murmured. "They want us away from the river, so they harass us on the road and pull us toward the border…."

Stabbing the kindling twig into the dirt, Boromir turned to look at him. The hair stirred on the back of Theodred's neck as he recognized the grim, eerie light in the green eyes looking at him even as they looked through him.

"We're going the wrong way," Boromir repeated, the very ground seeming to carry the sound of the words through Theodred's body up to his ears and into his mind and heart.

"Which way do we go?" he asked quietly.

"Northeast, to the river."

"Which one?"

"That one," Boromir replied, pointing at the sketch he had made in the ash.

Theodred opened his mouth to point out no river looked like that, but something about the checkerboard tickled at him, something in the irregular surface of the ash. It looked impossibly familiar, as if he should know it.

"The Mouth of the Entwash," he said slowly, the uneven lines resolving into the memory of a map in his father's hall. "Where it meets the great river to go south to the sea…."

"And feeds the Merino into the Halifirien wood."

"Where you were attacked. I confess, that has troubled me, for there has been no other report of brigands there for some time."

Boromir shrugged. "Even so, few travel the West Road through the woods at night."

"You're an idiot," Theodred sighed, shaking his head. "Finish your breakfast; I'll go break the news to Eomer."

"We must go quickly," Boromir answered, springing to his feet and jogging to where his horse had been napping until its rider got around to tightening the girth of its saddle and getting on with the day.

Muttering unflattering things about Boromir's ancestry, even though it was one he shared with his distant cousin, Theodred took Boromir's untouched food, rolling it up into the last of the flat pan bread. He was too experienced a campaigner to waste food on the march, and Boromir in one of these moods was surly enough without hunger adding to it.

SCENE BREAK

"Logs?" Faramir repeated.

"Logs," Beregond answered. "At least twenty of them, by the tracks, all about the same size, and all pine."

"What would raiders want with pine logs?" Faramir muttered, more to himself than to his square.

"Not for firewood, that's certain," Garad said. "Too much work for raiders. The bastards steal ours instead."

"Green logs will smoke out rather than burn," Beregond pointed out. "Slaves are profitable."

"We approach winter," Faramir reminded him. "Spring is the season for slaves, when food is plentiful, and it is easy to get your gold out of their backs. No one would buy them now, when they would have to be fed or die or founder of weakness when they were needed."

"I wonder…." Damrod said, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. "They head Southwest…."

"Toward the river," Faramir said, when no one else would.

"Green wood also floats," Damrod observed.

"Boats?" Beregond asked, his expression dubious.

"Rafts," Damrod corrected.

"Or fortifications," Garad frowned.

"We will follow these logs,' Faramir decided. "Their fate will determine our course."

SCENE BREAK

"This is madness!" Eomer hissed, bringing his mount beside and in stride with Theodred's. "First we could not rouse him, and now he drives our horses into the ground – and takes us away from the enemy!"

"Patience," Theodred told his cousin-brother. "You have not fought with him before."

"Nor likely again," Eomer muttered. "Our people are dying on the border! They look to their Marshall for aid, and here I am traipsing off after some hunch!"

Theodred sighed heavily.

"Now he's got you doing it," Eomer complained, shaking his head with a roll of his eyes that brought his sister strongly to Theodred's mind.

"You're right," Theodred agreed, the words coming slowly. "We are being attacked on the border, though we do not know the why of it. You are the Marshall of the Eastfold, if you wish to take your Men and ride to their aid, I will not stop you, nor will Boromir."

"But you will ride with him."

"I will."

"Damn it!" Eomer swore, slapping his reigns against his thigh in irritation. "I can't split my Eored, we would be too few! But I can't let you ride off alone with that great idiot!"

"He's not an idiot," Theodred replied mildly. "Do your duty as you see it, my brother."

Eomer snorted, giving him a fierce look from under the brow of his helm. "And if, beyond all reason, he is right?"

Theodred shrugged. "We can take care of ourselves. Boromir is worth ten men in a fight."

Eomer snorted again, looking away this time.

"You have only seen him in his merriment, and now in this strange mood," Theodred said. "Wait until you stand with him against the enemy."

"And if you come up against twenty-two?" Eomer asked.

Theodred laughed at the loyalty of the question, and gave Boromir's usual answer to such things. "We will contrive something."

Eomer swore again, committing eloquently profane treason. Theodred repressed his grin, and let the younger Man wrestle with his decision.

"All right," Eomer finally grudged. "I will go with you, but when we find we are on a fool's errand…. I will mention it to our Gondorian Cousin!"

"You have no idea how much I hope we are," Theodred told him, sighing again.

SCENE BREAK

"Ah, there you are, Elena," Her Grace of Osgiliath said, looking up from her desk with her usual stern frown.

"Where are Hugger and Mugger?" Elena asked, looking around for the Twins.

"Malta needed a nap," Liel answered, the ghost of a smile easing her expression.

"Clever," Elena congratulated. "Aradan tells me there is a communiqué from Cair Andros?"

"I've just translated the cipher. The Rangers there have taken in an influx of refugees caught in a river squall, and need emergency supplies."

Elena made herself comfortable in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, swinging her feet up on the closest one. She watched in patient silence as Liel took up her pen once again, dipping it in the inkwell and adding more to the list of supplies lying next to the coded message from the river fortress north of the City.

"I want you to gather these supplies as quickly as possible. We'll go overland, with the Lancers, as the weather on the river is too unreliable to chance."

"We?" Elena repeated, raising an eyebrow at her Princess. Liel was particularly precise with words, as befitted one who had begun fencing with the Steward's council in childhood.

"If you would prefer to stay and assist Aradan in the City, you may, of course," Liel replied briskly.

"We're slipping the leash?"

"Cair Andros comes under my purview," Liel reminded her. "Nor will Osgiliath fall in the short time we will be away."

"What about the boys?" Elena asked. "They've gotten very attached."

"We will not be gone long, and such separations will always be part of their lives here. Aradan will keep them under wing, and Loriel can use the exercise."

Elena burst out laughing. "Matchmaking is my job, Oh My Princess! It might be worth staying here just to see those two coping!"

"As it pleases you," Liel replied, with a surprising shortness of temper. Her Princess stood, and Elena rose with her, reaching across the desk to take the amended list of supplies being handed to her.

Liel left the desk to go to where her shirt of Mithril rings stood gleaming on its armour stand, one of the few relics of her House that she actually made use of. She fingered the midnight blue tabard that lay over it, decorated with the seven stars of Elendil above the upswept wings of Sea Eagles, a segmented circle of the closed dome inside it, as Earendil would see it.

With a frown of her own, Elena glanced down at the list she held, paying particular attention to the medical supplies Liel had just added, the ink still not quite dry on them. It looked like she was preparing for the aftermath of a battle, rather than too many mouths for the Rangers to feed from their limited pantry.

"Be quick, and be thorough," Liel commanded, lifting the tabard and hauberk from their stand with the ease of long practice. "Captain Thalion awaits me in the stable with the other Lancers. We will be ready to ride by noon, see that the wagons are ready by then."

"What's gotten up your nose?" Elena demanded.

Liel considered the question, then turned to look at her.

"There were bees swarming on the roses under my window this morning."

"But they aren't in flower…."

Liel didn't say anything, but the storm in those grey eyes rivalled anything that the River could produce.

"Your Grace?" Elena prompted uncertainly.

"It is given to Boromir and Faramir to know when the other is hurt, and in need. But when Boromir dreams, and Faramir dreams, and their dreams touch before harm has been done, that is the voice of Gondor seeking its tongue. If we do not heed Her, we will lose Her."

"Understood," Elena said, touching hand to heart then out to her Lady even as she turned to leave the room at a run.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

A/N Again, many thanks to the loyal reviewers! Yes, the suspense is building! -C

The moment of decision had arrived; there was no getting around it. A body of water much wider than even the most generous stream lay ahead of them. They could all see the gouges from the logs that had been dragged down its banks, floated across the sluggish channel, and then dragged up the bank on the other side, disappearing into the tall grass of the plain ahead of them. The logs were not going South with the current, they were going North.

Garad traded a look with Beregond, who shrugged a little, tilting his head at Faramir's back. Garad shook his head in answer to the unspoken invitation. He wasn't about to bring their orders up, not unless or until he absolutely had to.

"Captain…" Damrod murmured, stepping up as the veteran of the Square.

"Sergeant?" Faramir answered pleasantly.

"What are your orders?" Damrod replied, a double-edged sword of a question.

"Follow our quarry of course."

Damrod nodded, turning his head to follow the course of the water's southward toward the Anduin and eventually bending slightly westward toward the Belfalas and the sea.

"I have had a good career," he said, with a melancholy air. "My youth has been given to the Rangers, and my knees are already ruined by too many winters in the wet. But yours are still young and hale…. Such a pity to sacrifice them to Gondor so early."

"What would Gondor want with my knees, Old Man?" Faramir asked, grinning as he always did when Damrod chose to become the querulous, garrulous uncle-sit-by-the-fire.

"They say it's the knees that go first, though you'd think it would be the neck, what with having to wear that damned parade helmet through your shift…. "

"Rangers do not parade, in helms or anything else. Leave that foolishness to the simple minds and flat feet of the infantry!" Faramir laughed

"Because we will be envying the infantry their freedom when Our Captain-General learns we have disobeyed his most explicit orders, oh my Captain," Damrod informed him mournfully. "We'll spend the rest of our careers baking in the sun and freezing in the snow, guarding a dead tree until we die, or it falls on us and puts us out of our misery."

"Boromir said not to cross 'the river'," Faramir countered mildly. "As he did not say which river, I can only assume he meant 'The Great River'. This is not the Anduin, nor does the Anduin feed it. It comes from the Entwash. Besides, this is barely a stream.""

Damrod shook his head. "With your permission, I will be taking leave while you argue semantics with your brother, My Lord. I hear Amon Din is particularly lovely this time of year."

Beregond snorted. "If you're fond of slipping on ice and turning blue," he whispered in a loud aside to Garad. "Then again, I've always looked good in blue…."

Garad knew it was his turn to give tacit approval to Faramir's plan to cross the river. With a sigh of his own that even he had to admit sounded remarkably like Boromir, he sat himself down on the ground.

"What are you doing?" Faramir asked him, brows furrowing in confusion.

"Keeping my boots dry," Garad replied evenly as he pulled up the long cuff turned down over the laces of his tall boots of oiled leather, expressly designed to survive the wet environs of Henneth Annûn.

Beregond laughed and Damrod shook his head, muttering about the softness of the current crop of Rangers. Normally, Garad would have listened closely to the older Man's wit, but the startled look on Faramir's face as he stared down at him had all his attention. His Captain looked like a gong had gone off inside his head, a sure and certain sign they were heading for trouble.

"So that's what he said to you," Faramir murmured. "What else did he not wish me to hear?"

"He said we probably would have to cross the river, but he wanted you to stop and think about it before you did."

Faramir nodded. "I knew that much when he did not press me to accept the letter of his orders, but he did not tell me to keep your boots dry…."

Garad took a moment, thinking about what to say next, and finally sighed again. "And then he asked us all to dinner, even though he hadn't been alone with his Lady in nearly two weeks."

"Well, fuck," Beregond said, with his own Boromir sigh. Nudging Garad to move over with a smack, he sat down next to the bigger Man and started to unlace his own boots.

Faramir looked to Damrod for his opinion. The older Man said nothing, instead sitting down on the ground favouring supposedly old bones, giving his answer as he began to take off his boots.

"And yet there is merit to Boromir's caution," Faramir said, despite the agreement of his Square with his decision. He turned so Garad could not see his face. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Garad shot a look at Beregond, signing *fire?* between them.

The answer came immediately, a sure *no*. It would be different if Beregond had not been backing toward a hearth when Boromir had given his warning, but as it stood, they would take it for what it seemed to be, and not burden their Captain's decision with it.

"It might be best….," Faramir finally said, then turned, his face set and stern. "Garad and Beregond will return to Osgiliath with the intelligence we have so far. Damrod and I will follow the trail, and return when we know where it leads."

"We've left sign," Garad said with a grunt, pulling off one boot. "It takes four Men to guard and sleep enough to be alert. We all stay, or we all go, Captain."

Faramir glanced at him, an uncertainty Garad was unaccustomed to seeing on his face.

"We must follow this," he said quietly, almost apologetically.

"Then lend me a hand," Garad replied, leaning back on his elbows and lifting the leg of his remaining boot to present its heel to Faramir for his assistance in removing it.

*Tar.*

Faramir knew his sign was unnecessary. They could all smell it, could see the barrels of it stacked in the encampment on the hill above them in the twilight of the setting sun. A gift of the marshes of the Nindalf to the Northeast, it was the lifeblood of the Gondorian fleet. It was worth a fortune on the black market, eagerly sought by the Corsairs who had so often brought trouble and death to the people along the Anduin

The logs they had followed were being stacked by Men and older boys and girls who were clearly prisoners, their beards long and their clothes ragged and dirty. They were farmers, probably some of them in the militia. It was easy to see how their labour was being forced from them, for a line of old Men and Women, young children and mothers sat at the bottom of the hill, their hands bound behind them.

A rope ran on a low picket behind them, through their arms, binding them all together, keeping them in one place. Whether the logs were for rafts or winter accommodation was unimportant, as the discovery of the prisoners had solved an old and ugly riddle. It had been all too common for the bodies of an entire village to be found massacred in the foothills behind the Firien wood, far from their homes, far from the enemy, far from any explanation for the remains found frozen in the hands of winter.

These people would be worked for another week, perhaps two, until the weather grew harsh enough to stop the harvesting of the tar. They would be told they would be taken to the markets, sold for profit, and they would believe it and would cooperate, for the sake of hope, for the sake of not seeing their children killed before their eyes, for the desperate chance one more day of life might afford….

Looking back at his Men, Faramir didn't need to ask. They had left their messages for the skilled eyes who would come looking for them, would leave more to tell of this, but they could not leave these people, not with winter so close, nor could they chance enough tar to rebuild the pirate fleet of Umbar falling into the wrong hands.

*How?* Damrod signed.

Faramir considered the question, taking in the swampy ground around the prisoners, wet, muddy, thick with standing water and insects. Up the hill was dry, with plenty of cover in the shrub and brush….

They had little hope of saving the prisoners, less of saving themselves, but they must try above all things to save Gondor, and to do that, they must destroy the tar.

*Damrod with me,* he signed, sticking to the protocol of an experienced Ranger teamed with a younger one while switching around their usual pairs. He ignored the look of protest Garad shot him, deciding that he would obey Boromir in this, at least, and send Garad where there was no water to endanger his boots.

*We'll take the prisoners, and distract them first. Garad, Beregond, up the hill, and when we have their attention, set that tar on fire, destroy it. You'll be the distraction we need to get them away.*

*Tonight?* Beregond asked.

Faramir considered it, then shook his head. *Tomorrow night. Let us study our enemy, and give the Moon another day to diminish."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

A/N Wow what wonderfully well –expressed reviews! Thank you so much for telling Eleanor what I've been saying for years, that no one writes the men – AND women, of ME as detailed and beautifully as she does. Ok, this is where I started writing, Garad's POV, so expect a downturn in style and an upturn in hurt-comfort! G But also, please note, the Faramir POV is written by Eleanor. The two of us spent many many hours working out the plot of this story. The stuff with what exactly the bad guys are doing and how the action unravels, alone, was a lot of talking, and a lot of fun, and especially a lot of work. So we hope you enjoy!

Carolyn

The damp pre-dawn ground mist was all pervasive, chilling Garad's bare face as he crawled forward and concealing stony patches and thorn grass. The damned stuff kept shifting. Just when he'd turn aside to take a clearer route, there it would be again, as if it had a mind of its own and was deliberately toying with him.

Enfolding and entwining, it wove through the tall, spiky grass stems shrouding them in gossamer grey ribbons. The clean tang of wet grass was shrouded too, heavily overlaid by the cloying sharp smell of tar.

Garad inched forward again, pushing with elbows and knees, cursing silently as more hidden stones dug into his belly. Carefully, he parted a clump of tough grass stalks. All he could see ahead was more long grass, darker blotches against the silver-black star-strewn sky, rustling softly with a rising breeze from the river far below and behind him at the foot of the hill.

_So much for being the biggest Man in the square,_ he grouched silently for what must have been the hundredth time. '_Just that much further to bend down and get up _again! This_ crawling stuff would be a picnic for a Dwarf!'_

If the moon stayed behind those nice thick white clouds, the enemy sentries would not see their hands before their faces let alone the knife that slit their throats. Of course, that also meant Garad had as much trouble seeing anything. He was doubly glad of the time and meticulous effort he and the others had spent studying the terrain yesterday. Nonetheless, working from so far wasn't much help with fine detail, such as his recent painful discovery that some of the grass was of the very prickly and thorny variety, but at least they had thrashed out their plan thoroughly.

His mental clock told him Faramir and Damrod would even now be working their way round the rear left flank of the hill, their aim to free the prisoners. Once that was done, they would become the Second Distraction to allow Garad and Beregond to get close enough to set fire to the tar.

Providing he and Beregond managed to pull the First Distraction off. Their intent was to make a swift, sharp jab to kill the sentries, then alert the Raider's camp so they had a clear route round the other side of the hill. At the outcry, both from above and below, they would be ready to dart in and set fires under cover from Faramir and Damrod's expert archery.

If everything worked perfectly, which it never, ever did.

Being the Men who provided the First Distraction, of course, also translated to being Prime Targets. The consolation being that he and Beregond would have the fun part, getting to cause mayhem and destruction without having to worry about protecting civilians. Faramir could have that joy all to himself.

Rolling to his knees, Garad waved Beregond forward once more. A Ranger pair kept their distance in this kind of stealthy scouting approach, the one to cover for the other in case of trouble, but would rapidly close up when the fighting got underway.

Quietly, checking the empty horizon again, Garad got part way to his feet. Hunched double, he took a cautious step, then another, another. His boots slipped a little on the slope of a shallow, dew-slick grassy hollow. There was a faint splash. Garad froze, looked down, saw silver rippling about his ankles.

Water.

He had stepped into a grass-hidden spring, just deep and wide enough to get his boots thoroughly wet.

Fuck.

'_Keep your boots dry.' _The chill warning tone of Boromir's voice came back loud and clear and urgent.

Garad's nerves screamed at him to take cover. He clamped down on the impulse, smothering it, and calmly cast his sharp gaze inch by inch across the skyline above him on the slope. Nothing moved, just the grass waving in a gentle ripple beneath the stars. Cautiously he took another step.

Stop! Every instinct urged it, running his blood cold. He passed that signal on, could almost sense Beregond's puzzlement.

The moon suddenly broke free of the clouds. Something shone bright and white, gleaming low and blotted by waving grass stems. Garad peered more closely. Eyes. Masked by scarves. At least four sentries hiding in wait, rather than walking the perimeter, all of them bunched together in this one spot as if expecting attack from this quarter. That was unusual, and the number was twice what they had expected, but the enemy could not see him, crouched against the darkness of the lower hill.

He whistled the cricket call signal for to warn Beregond, knowing his friend would hurry quietly forward to join him. He turned back, dagger in hand, and moved up and forward toward the nearest guard, glad to be out of the water. His boots dripped a trail of wetness onto the grass.

Abruptly, the ground gave way to a hollow emptiness and he fell sharply, straight down. Pain erupted through his left leg, a spear point slicing through his calf muscle. His foot twisted, taking his weight and caught between the cunningly placed small boulders that wedged the spear shafts. He heard and felt the bone snap in his lower leg.

Fire sliced upward to explode through every nerve and warm blood coated his cold flesh. Shock stole the breath from his lungs. The next breath, a rising scream, was strangled as he bit down hard into his lower lip. But some sound had escaped, would have alerted the enemy. He didn't need to signal the danger. Beregond had seen him go down, was cricketing to him, hurrying to his rescue. Garad tried to marshal breath to whistle, 'stop'.

The top of the pit was level with Garad's shoulders. The bastards had probably had their prisoners dig them all the way around the slope of the hillocks. By some luck, he and Beregond had avoided the ones further down-slope.

Garad's vision cleared as four dark blots loomed from the wrong direction, coming fast but stepping carefully, knowing where the other traps were. The enemy had heard him, seen him go down, had probably been waiting all along for just such an occurance.

The first arrived, swinging his sword to behead the captive. It was a bad move to expose himself against the lighter sky. He fell with Beregond's arrow through one eye. The second enemy bellowed a curse, drawing his sword.

"Nay!" Someone shouted from close by upslope.

Groggy, sick, Garad tried to block then realised he had dropped his dagger as he fell. Death sliced toward him, silver against the black and grey cloud-strewn sky, but his attacker pulled the blow at the last second.

They wanted him alive, he realized.

Garad snagged the Man's legs, pulled him down and into an arm-lock, then snapped his neck. But already the other two were close and more coming.

Beregond took on the first two, trading sword blows as he stood forward of Garad, protecting him. Garad got himself together enough to scrabble around in the tangled trampled grass on the edge of the hole to find and claim his fallen dagger with his left hand, his right trying, but failing in the narrow space to draw his sword. He swung clumsily with the dagger from ground level, trying to stab the Southron sentry in the back of the knee and partly succeeding as the Man stumbled, not crippled, but bloodied.

Beregond took his chance, lunging to kill. But to Garad's dismay, instead, his friend grunted pain and collapsed to his knees, dropping his sword. They had been too slow, the enemy reinforcements had arrived, one striking Bear on the back of the head with the flat of his blade.

Garad craned, trying to turn to attack him, to somehow reach this new foe, but was swamped by pain that sent bile flooding his mouth. His vision wavered, then exploded into red pain as he was struck a stunning, glancing blow to the side of the head.

Not quite unconscious he felt the tug as someone pulled his dagger from his hand and heard deep voices snapping orders. Hands grabbed under his armpits and heaved, dragging his impaled, broken leg from the stake.

This time, he did scream.

SCENE BREAK

Faramir's stomach dropped beneath his feet as a scream pierced the blackness of the night, from a voice that should not ever scream.

He automatically signaled for Damrod to stop, though the other Man already had, and was looking at him, waiting for him to decide what they should do, since their plan of being a distraction was now useless to them and the Men he had meant it to protect.

*Continue,* he signed. They would behave as if Garad and Beregond were dead, for now, until their objective had been achieved.

Then he would return, and make certain they were.

SCENE BREAK

"Ahh – ahh –shit!"

Garad's agonized curse echoed about him before he was fully awake. Rough hands were doing something very painful to his right leg. Scarlet flares burst and stabbed behind his closed eyelids. He gasped, gulped air sufficient to snap, "Watch it, fuckwit!"

"Steady."

Beregond, whispering, low and tense somewhere very close. It wasn't he who was doing the first aid, and Damrod and Faramir would never hurt him like that, so what, where….? Garad blinked, squinted, saw moonlit white clouds swirling against a heavy night sky.

"Don't like it, soldier boy? Have some more!"

A great thick club of a hand that matched the guttural voice reached down and Garad couldn't stop himself flinching, sensed Beregond trying to come to his aid. Someone else was faster, blocking the blow.

"Leave him, fool! We need him awake. Use the other one."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

A/N Tag team writing! The first scene here, Faramir's POV, is Eleanor. The Garad stuff, and most of the hurt comfort! Is mine… of course! I need to tell you I hated writing this bit, but pulling punches doesn't make for the reality of what these men's lives would truly be like at war - Carolyn

The four Men guarding the prisoners died within a heart beat of each other. An arrow pinned their throat closed from making a sound, followed by Damrod's swift, sharp knife cutting their throats from ear to ear just to make certain sure the job was done.

He cut the end of the picket next, freeing the restraining rope that allowed the prisoners to lay down to sleep, but nothing more without alerting their guards to the movement.

The Man closest to the stake where the rope had been secured rolled onto his chest, straining to raise his bound wrists up from the small of his back, silently begging for his release.

Damrod obliged him, and the Man scrambled up on his hands and knees, crawling to the body of the nearest guard, pulling the dagger from the dead man's boot.

The prisoners stirred, those managing to sleep waking or being awoken. Damrod signaled fiercely for silence as the Man he had freed went first to a Woman down the line, cutting her wrists free. She, too, found a guard, looting his body for the blades he carried as the Man continued to release the able-bodied fighters first.

Damrod's command was obeyed better than Faramir could have hoped, mothers holding the noses of their children so they would not be able to cry, needing their mouths to breathe instead.

A wild hope sprang up inside Faramir as he realized these people were not cowed, were not broken, that they were ready and able to fight despite all they had endured. An ancient, fierce pride swept though him. These were his people, and he silently vowed he would die this night before they would.

Then the reality of the moment reasserted itself as torches fired on the hill above them, fires being stirred to a blaze, the better to see the spectacle of a captured Ranger. He hoped Beregond was still free, stood waiting in the darkness with his arrow at the nock, ready with a merciful death for Garad should it become absolutely necessary….

He had to shake the mental image off, ground himself firmly in the moment, turn toward the Man coming toward him in a crouching trot. Taking the hint, Faramir dropped down on his own heels, pulling his bow down crosswise in front of him to minimize its profile.

"Iorlas," the Man whispered. Faramir nodded, but didn't give his own name. Other Faramirs there might be in Gondor, but a Faramir who was also a Ranger would have a price on his head that could rebuild a village. Iorlas took it in stride, another sign he was experienced militia, familiar with the closed-mouth ways of Rangers.

"They'll send guards down to check on us, bring us back up the hill for safe-keeping," the militiaman continued, Faramir straining to hear him. "You're going after your Man?"

"Men," Faramir corrected softly, knowing that even if he was still free, Beregond wouldn't abandon Garad, or his over-riding mission to destroy the tar.

"There's forty odd of them in bunkers up there," Iorlas told him grimly. "With more on the way. They're planning to move that shipment out today, or tomorrow, depending on when their friends arrive."

'_Fuck,_' Faramir swore to himself, since Garad was not here to say it for him. There was no way they could have known, not until they were standing right on top of the hive.

"Get your people out of here," Faramir ordered. "Get word to the City of Osgiliath as quickly as possible. Gondor must know of this threat, in case we fail to destroy the tar."

The Man nodded. "I can spare three to help you; the rest will take my people to safety and then carry the word to the Steward."

"To Osgiliath," Faramir corrected sternly. "The Captain-General is there. It will fall to him to stop these bastards, if I cannot. Take all of your people, we stand to lose enough here."

"You'll never make it," Iorlas replied, shaking his head. "The whole mountain's hived with bear-traps. That's probably what got your Man. We dug 'em, we'll get you past 'em, Captain."

Reaching out, Faramir took Iorlas' ragged collar in his gloved hand, yanking him close, pulling him cheek to cheek, his mouth against the smaller Man's ear. "Fail to obey me, or get in my way, or even make a sound at the wrong time, and you're dead," he warned.

"Understood," Iorlas agreed, waiting for Faramir to let him go before scuttling back to the line of villagers to arrange for meeting the raiders already making their way down the hill with torches in their hands.

He noted with approval that the militiaman was coiling up the long rope that lay on the ground, hiding it under him as he lay down so nothing would be amiss to alert the approaching raiders. They would take that rope with them, and see if a trap of their own might not be contrived.

The light of the torches was close enough to be revealing now, and Faramir drew back into the shadows and the clumps of tall grass, getting the range he would need to silently dispatch those coming to check on the prisoners. In front of him, the freed captives were reassembling themselves into their line of "sleepers", except for those who now wore the cloaks of the dead guards, whose looted bodies were now filling up the gaps in the line of the prisoners.

He took an arrow from his quiver, set it point first in the ground in front of him, following it with another, and then a third and fourth, ready for quick shooting. In the darkness across from him, he knew Damrod was doing the same. They must be careful of their shots, make sure they hit true through flesh, and not break their tips on bones. They would need every arrow they could command on the height.

'_Hang on,_' he thought to the friends left to the mercy of their enemies. _'We're coming for you._'

One way or the other, he wouldn't leave Garad and Beregond in the hands of the captors one more minute more than he had to.

SCENE BREAK

The brute grunted and stood to go toward Beregond. Garad stared in disbelief. He himself was a big man, but this Man was bigger, wider, hunched shouldered, as if half-Orc.

Memory returned: They were captives, and both had seen the remains and heard nightmarish reports of what raiders did to prisoners.

"Bear?" Garad murmured, and turned his head toward where he'd heard his friend's voice.

Beregond lay on his back just out of reach, his arms bound before him, and his ankles tied together. At least they had only bound Garad's hands. The reason was evident in the agony of what could only be a broken leg, the pain so severe that it soured Garad's stomach. The rough treatment had resulted in a tourniquet being tied tight above his knee. His leg was not only broken, but had also been sliced as it was impaled on a stake set in the pit.

Suddenly, there was more light amid the rancid, sharp smell of burning tar fouling the clean night air. There was a glug-glugging sound and a heavier smell of tar as it was poured, then flames, close by, leaping higher from a small shallow pit.

Dazed, sick, Garad tried to focus, his vision swimming in and out, capturing Beregond's fear-white and bruised face. Their gazes met and locked for the briefest moment, scared, but determined. Bear gave him a faint smile.

'_We can make it through this,'_ Garad thought as hard as he could at Bear, knowing the other Man was probably thinking the same thing at him. '_Faramir and Damrod are on their way.'_

Beregond responded with the slightest tilt of his head toward the slope they had climbed. Had he already heard something, or was he merely saying that's the only way in and it's full of traps?

Garad stifled a groan. That was true, if their friends tried anything….

Beregond, still holding his gaze, tilted his head the other way, craning a little to indicate something else. To the left, beyond the fire, was a low wall of mud bricks about a tunnel mouth. More Men appeared from it, shaking themselves from sleep and called out by the others to come join the fun with the captives.

It was a second shift. They had badly underestimated the numbers of the enemy, and could not have known so many more lay in hiding, sleeping through the day, buried in underground caverns. This was a major base and had probably been used for some years, an ugly nest of hornets that threatened both Rohan and Gondor. It was imperative this intelligence was carried back to Osgiliath. Faramir and Damrod's priority would lie there, not in rescuing them, nor even with the enslaved villagers. They were on their own.

Suddenly, Beregond was hauled roughly to his feet, drawing a muted gasp of pain as the giant raider pulled him up by his bound arms. That left him standing precariously balanced on bare feet, his ankles so tightly bound that he struggled to keep his balance.

'_They took his boots? And they've lit a tar pit. Fuck!'_ Garad thought, trying not to show his captor how frantic he felt.

The guard was big, taller than Garad by at least a head, muscle rippling over bare arms and chest. Its flesh was dark, and thick as light armour plate. Its mouth showed animal's teeth, the grimace all sharp fangs...

What kind of abomination had Mordor invented now?

"Too heavy for you?" Beregond managed to keep his voice steady through the taunt. He looked up and up to give the creature a contemptuous sneer that made Garad want to cheer.

"Forget any heroics," another more cultured voice, slurred with the accent of Southron put in, making Garad jump a little as he appeared from the other side of the barrel wall.

The newcomer squatted at Garad's other side, between him and the stack of tar barrels that cut the worst of the cold night air sweeping up the slope from the river. Garad turned away from Beregond to find a definitely foreign face looking down at him with mild curiosity. The Man's dark hair was mostly hidden under a rust-colored scarf wrapped about his head, his skin color swarthy and his eyes a bright hazel brown. Intelligence, cunning and cruel humor lay beneath the sharp gaze directed at Garad then up to Beregond.

This Man had to be the commander of the raiders. More Men were arriving to watch the show, gathering about them in a loose circle. Further off, others worked to light campfires set about the ridge top, no doubt obeying their commander's orders. These were armed with bows as well as swords. If Faramir or Damrod so much as showed their faces, they'd get an arrow for their trouble.

Now Garad knew why the other Ranger teams had disappeared without so much as a trace. Their friends had probably tried to rescue them, too, or they had all been taken by the traps….

"Your friend will pay for any foolishness." The chief raider brandished a wickedly curved dagger and placed its point, surprisingly gently, against Garad's broken leg. "What are your orders? How many of you—?"

"Fuck off," Garad interrupted, his tone conversational.

Even more surprisingly, the dagger point did not move in retaliation. The Man merely nodded to his giant companion. There was a loud ripping sound and Garad looked quickly back to see the giant had torn off Beregond's tunic.

The onlookers snickered, their eager eyes flicking from Beregond's bare flesh to the hungry flames licking above the burning tar. The pit was not more than a foot deep, its edges lined with thick green grass where the earth had been repeatedly gouged as slave labor dragged the heavy barrels up the slope. The deeper part was filled with glowing, red-hot chunks of peat suspended in the raw tar, and it was about the width of a Man's chest.

"Gonna roast you nice and slow, like a fucking pig at Yule," the giant snarled.

Garad bit back a groan of utter despair. The other Men jeered and laughed. Another carefully tipped the open barrel with his boot so a little more tar dripped into the pit to make the flames dance. The giant pulled Beregond's bound arms up over his head, and someone else threw a loop of rusty iron chain about Beregond's chest, pulling it tight just beneath the armpits. It was secured at his back where it continued on in a long loop, a halter lead, a lever for torture.

Iron would not burn through, like rope.

Garad's stomach heaved, the nausea immediately engulfed in a wave of icy hatred. '_I'll kill these bastards! By all the Valar, I swear it!'_

They spun the half-naked Beregond about to face him and the younger Man blinked, startled and pleased as he caught Garad's murderous glare burning through the giant's back. Beregond's terror eased a fraction into surprise and pleasure to find his friend, broken, yes, but ready to fight. A proud, if tremulous smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, then settled into a sad, grim line that matched the look in his eyes as he met Garad's gaze.

'_I'm dead. Forget me. Farewell, my friend.'_

The thoughts were all there in Beregond's eyes and it made Garad want to weep and fight their captors like a madman. But he couldn't move without risk of passing out. Then, it came to him, as if in answer to his plea, a sure knowing, and the beginnings of a plan.

"Nothing is surer than this," Garad said, very calm and certain, his tone eerie even to his own hearing. Foreboding shivered through him along with the beginning tendrils of fever, but Garad held the dark gaze of his captor, dug deep and hard, letting the fever reveal the full weight of the vision. "Hurt him and you will die, slow and ugly."

The Southron laughed, but it was hollow and nervous. Somehow, Garad was sure the Man was rarely shaken as he was now.

"You are injured, my friend, and confused," Southron told him with sardonic sympathy, a snort of genuine amusement chasing the momentary uncertainty from his expression. "It is he," the Southron said, pointing his dagger tip at Beregond, "who is about to die slow and ugly."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Faramir clenched his fist, controlling himself, mastering the urge to kill the laughing Southron pointing his knife at the struggling Beregond. He knew that kind of laughter all too well, and the cunning, manipulative cruelty that went with it. This Man would kill slowly, making a game of it.

He could see the bunkers now, and wondered if he and Damrod had enough arrows between them to match their number. Certainly they wouldn't have the chance to find out. He would be lucky if he could manage to kill Garad and Beregond in the time he had. He'd have to go for Beregond first. He was surrounded by raiders, in a twisting knot of motion, fighting his captors, bobbing in and out of his aim. The best chance for a clean shot when they actually had Beregond over the trench….

A cricket questioned in the darkness and he turned, scowling at Damrod for the interruption. The Man had his orders, damn it! Fire the tar while the raiders chased the archer who had stolen their prey from them, and retreat with the freed villagers. He shouldn't be here, standing close enough for Faramir to see.

Damrod caught his gaze, raised a sliding loop he'd made from the rope they'd brought with them up the hill. Faramir's heart leapt, and he held his breath, letting it out slowly, controlling the surge of energy flooding through him at the sudden hope presented to him. Damrod was a master with a rope, his lasso would not miss. But they only had one rope, could only try to save one….

*Garad,* he signed, without hesitation. Beregond was beyond reach of the rope, but his struggles had pulled everyone but the Southron leader away from Garad.

Damrod nodded, agreeing, the skin of his face tightening with the clear-eyed grief of the moment. They would save Garad, and then they would avenge Beregond.

*Pick your time,* Faramir signed, taking two arrows from his quiver to set them in the ground before him for the quick draw. He would take the two shots he had time for. The first would take the Southron's life; draw the attention of the raiders. With the second, he would do his duty, to Beregond, and then to Gondor. And when Garad was rescued and the tar was burning, he would come back and kill every last orcfucking bastard who had taken Beregond from him.

SCENE BREAK

"Don't," Garad warned, knowing he was not bluffing, already an idea coming to him. If he could just stall long enough and if those camp fires were –

"I won't," the Southron replied; drawing Garad's wandering attention away from the tar barrels stacked in a curving semi-circle about him.

Garad gave him a 'go on' look, buying time.

"There is no need for any of this." The Southron's dagger ran red, catching the evil crimson of the pit as its owner turned the blade toward the torture fire. There was a disappointed grunt and sighing from several spectators. "No harm will come to your friend. Simply answer my questions and he is safe."

"I…." Garad paused, thinking quickly, trying to find the best lie, the best way to stall. There came a soft but piercing sharp clicking whistle, a cricket calling to the coming dawn, or so it would seem to anyone else. It came from a long way down the slope, still below the line of traps; and it took all Garad had to resist the urge to shout warning.

"I –" he stammered, wincing exaggerated pain over his leg to cover any surprise and pleasure at the "Coming" signal of a Ranger friend in the dark. "What questions?" he asked the Southron.

The chain rattled. Beregond spat, then grunted as someone tugged hard on the leather lead about his ankles, making him fall heavily to the grassy earth. While that raider kept hold of the leather, the Giant took the chain, the one secured about Beregond's chest.

Garad swallowed hard, aware they intended holding Beregond down, stretched across the fire pit. With an animal bark of laughter, the giant pulled and Beregond slipped closer to the flames. Garad could feel the shimmering awful threat of that heat on his own exposed face and he was four times further from the fire than was Beregond. Black smoke shimmered and waved above the crimson glow of the blazing tar.

"What questions?" he repeated desperately. "What do you want to know?"

Instinctively, he struggled to sit up, wanting impossibly to save his friend, knowing the enemy would not leave off their game immediately even if Garad told them everything he knew.

"Patience," the commander said, and moved his knife so its point dug into the small of Garad's back. "Be still."

"You filthy…" Garad began, but stopped short as the chain rattled.

Another raider grabbed Beregond roughly under the arms and pulled him back and up into a sitting position until his hips were level with the edge of the pit. Beregond did not resist, there was no point and it would only give his captors pleasure. And he could plainly see the Southron's dagger pressed against Garad's kidney. One more tug by the Giant on that chain and Beregond would fall across the pit, his bare back burned by the leaping flames.

"Four," Garad said quickly and truthfully, knowing he would not be believed. "There are four of us."

The Southron commander laughed. "Only four? Such heroes!"

The Southron's free hand moved in a signal to begin. The chain rattled, then drew taut. Beregond jolted backward, pulled down, his back stretched across the flames of the burning pit. He screamed; high, ragged, agonized.

"It's the fucking truth!" Garad shouted.

"Lies."

"Twenty six," Garad said, his pounding heart shattered to shards of ice by Beregond's continued screams.

"Better," Southron said mildly.

The dagger tip lifted, the chain came up, pulling Beregond back from the fire. He fell to his right side on the thick grass, his last scream dying to a wailing moan that was quickly stifled as his teeth sank into his lower lip.

Garad wanted desperately to go to him, to help him, but even had he not been bound, his broken leg prevented movement. He could only lie there, a few feet from his suffering friend, helpless to ease his pain, staring in horror at the blackened and red raw flesh, some of it peeling and hanging in strips. The chain glowed, a dull red where it still touched him. His eyes screwed shut in agony, Beregond moaned, shook and shivered and tried to curl into a tighter ball about himself.

"Twenty six," Southron continued. "Objective?"

"What do you fucking think?" Garad snapped, and realized tears were tracking down his cheeks.

His Questioner's hand lifted, one finger held up. The Giant pressed his boot to Beregond's back, quickly, lightly, pushing the hot chain into the raw flesh. Beregond screamed, but, though Garad prayed for it, he did not lose consciousness. But these were not amateur torturers; they knew a Man's limits and had buckets of cold water ready to throw over his head when he did pass out.

"Mind how you address me," Southron said. "Objective?"

Beregond's eyes came open for a moment, met Garad's gaze with a pleading not to save him, but rather to shut up. Another whistle came from the dark. 'Coming'. Closer. Garad need only buy time, and some information was self-evident.

"To locate and destroy raiders," Garad said, unable to drag his gave from Beregond's trembling body, from his pain-filled eyes.

"No!" the cry left his lips before he could prevent it as Beregond was again dragged up and back to fall over the flames. His friend's scream was weaker now, more mindless, despairing….

"I told you!" Garad snarled and wept all at once. "What more do you want?"

"The Ranger base, we know it is somewhere in Ithilien. Give me precise details of its location."

"I'll tell you," Garad said quickly. "I'll tell you! Let him up!"

Another signal and Beregond was thrown back on to the grass to lie barely conscious on his side. The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh soured Garad's mouth and nose.

"Where in Ithilien is it," the Southron prompted, letting Garad know he was not ignorant of the affairs of Rangers.

"Don't," Beregond said over a whispered low moan. The onlookers jeered, but Garad knew he was begging not to be spared, but warning Garad not to talk. There was no need. Garad would never tell them about Henneth Annûn. Never. Nor would he see his friend tortured hour after hour until finally death released him. They would die or escape, together, and they would do it now. The tar barrels were his answer.

Another whistle from the darkness, two chirps, then three. "Be ready."

"I'm new, they use blindfolds. But there's a river close…."

The Southron sighed impatiently. "There are many rivers about Ithilien," he chided, signaling to his Men.

The chain pulled tight and Beregond writhed, his back arching, trying to get away from its incandescent agony, from the threat of the flames in the pit.

"You lie."

"Give me a chance to explain!" Garad begged. "I could see from on top of the hill above the base…."

He stretched his good leg, felt his boot touch the first rank of tar barrels that followed the curved line from around him down to his feet. The campfires were close; the tar would spray over everyone, and in the chaos….

Garad tried to track the time, knowing a Be Ready signal was followed by action in precisely three minutes. He babbled nonsense about a trail going from the Anduin on the east bank above Cair Andros. There was such a trail, but it was heavily patrolled and nowhere near Henneth Annûn.

"I do not believe you," Southron said. He lifted his hand again.

"No!" Garad cried. "Wait! All right, I'll tell you the truth!"

The final call came from the dark, one long flat owl hoot: _'NOW!''_

Garad lifted his good leg and lashed out, his booted foot smashing through the thin wooden staves and sending the spilling barrel back, crashing into the rank stacked behind it. Barrels fell, rolling everywhere.

Garad sidled away from one that would have pinned his legs, wincing and gasping over the pain of dragging his broken leg. Spilled tar sent the nearest campfire erupting in roaring flames and a trail of fire raced along the line back toward Garad.

The Southron had leapt to his feet, Men were scattering everywhere, struggling to stop the barrels reaching fire, but they were too late. A full, sealed barrel stuck in the middle of a fire where none could reach it and suddenly exploded with a dull thump. Globules of burning tar sprayed out over the camp, and Men ducked away, cursing, some screaming as their clothing caught fire.

In the midst of the mayhem, Garad rolled painfully closer to Beregond and pushed the water bucket over to douse the glowing chain. Beregond cried out as steam hissed from it, but then sighed as the coolness of the second bucket reached him.

"You will die for this! Gut him!" The Southron ordered, his eyes savage, frantic and white-rimmed against the dawning sky as he swiveled from the disarrayed camp back to Garad.

"You first!" Garad snarled and booted the half empty barrel that lay by the torture pit, slamming it into Southron's knees. He lost balance and toppled back, his left arm outflung and going elbow deep into the burning trench.

His scream was a joy to Garad's battered senses. There was more satisfaction as the open barrel rolled up onto the Southron's chest, spreading tar thickly over his tunic and the blaze leapt up to engulf him, as high and keen as his screaming. Someone grabbed his booted ankles and dragged him away from the fire, yet still he burned, writhed, screamed.

"Where are the fucking water buckets?" the Southron's rescuer demanded. Another Man took off at a run, calling that he'd get more water. The first bent to roll his commander over and over in the long green grass and mud. That left only the one enemy close to the captives, and it was The Giant. It snatched Garad's tunic front and hauled him up, pressing the flat of his blade to Garad's balls.

"You need gelding, pig!" it snarled, its breath foul in Garad's face.

An arrow hummed close, hissing across Garad's face to thump into the giant's throat. He let go of Garad and clapped both hands to the red froth erupting about the shaft. Even as the giant fell, Garad felt a rope lasso pull tight about his chest. He thought he heard Damrod's voice above the tumult of the camp and the fire that was rapidly spreading, roaring through the dry grass and exploding more barrels.

Men dropped, impaled by arrows as others fired blindly at their unseen attackers. The rope pulled taut and Garad snatched up the coiled chain that bound Beregond, winding it tight about his forearm. The rope jerked and pulled him back hard, Beregond's weight anchoring him for a moment.

A harried raider, seeing their prize about to be hauled away, bent down to grab Garad and got an arrow through an eye for his trouble. The rope strained, then suddenly there was more power pulling at it, taking the double weight easily.

Garad was dragged up and over the dead giant, his broken leg jolted with agonizing savagery. Graying out, he still tried feebly to wind another loop of chain. Then, he was sliding, faster and faster downhill, the noise of the camp drowned out by the swish of long grass about him, the smell of tar fading….

A faint jolt, a slowing, and Garad realized vaguely he had snagged on a clump of prickle grass. Abruptly, Beregond's weight eased, the chain loop going slack about his forearm.

"Bear!" Garad cried despairingly.

Then his friend's body slammed into his side and his awareness became Beregond's scream as momentum carried the injured Man onward and away. The chain jarred him to a halt, would dig sharp and deep into his armpits. Beregond's next scream was cut short as he passed out, a brutal, popping sound explaining why. The chain no longer burned him, but it had pulled Beregond's shoulders out of their sockets.

The rope's loops bit tightly into Garad's arm, threatening them as well. More tension came on the line, and he heard someone softly, urgently, calling his name. Freed from the clump of weeds, he slid down slope again and the movement sent him gladly falling back into unconsciousness.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

A/N Sorry for the delay in posting, I've been unwell. So figured I'd post two chs today to make up for it. Well, frankly, I couldn't stand leaving off where it was last ch! Thanks to the few reviewers who make it all worthwhile -Carolyn

Faramir held his shot, keeping his hand and arm steady, and the arrow his fingers held by a fraction, knowing Damrod was waiting for it to fly before he signaled to Garad.

The bastards surrounding Beregond moved, just enough to give him a clear head shot. He held his breath for that extra bit of control, and told his fingers to release.

Nothing happened.

The arrow stayed on its nock, as if glued to his fingers. The moment of opportunity passed untaken, Beregond's torturers once again blocking the mercy shot as they grabbed him in response to their leader's raised hand and knife.

He almost lowered the bow, blinking in confusion as he realized he hadn't taken the shot. He'd had the shot and he hadn't taken it, and now they were going to do that to Bear again….

They lifted Beregond high, laughing at the pain they caused him, and Faramir held onto his temper by the thinnest of threads. Only the need to save Bear from the fire, to save Damrod and Garad from having to hear him scream again, kept him in control, kept him from giving in to a murderous rage that would surely kill them all, and not kindly or cleanly.

Re-setting his grip, he shifted his aim. It would be a hard shot, to kill Beregond as they lowered him, the way they were swinging him and with Garad moving to interfere with his sight–

Garad was moving the wrong way. He wasn't moving toward Beregond, where his heart would take him, but toward the barrels of tar….

Faramir held his arrow, sent the cricket-call signal to act himself. Act Garad did, sending the tar barrels crashing, flying into the fire. He only had the use of one leg, a curse that just might become a blessing if Garad objected to having leave Beregond's body behind.

'Wait,' Faramir told himself as tar spilt and Men screamed and fire spread across the camp, dazzling against the night. The bastards had dropped Beregond short of the fire, but now Garad blocked a clean, killing shot.

Savage pride trembled Faramir's hand as Garad booted the Southron leader into the fire and he pushed the emotion aside. He must be ready as soon as Damrod had the rope around Garad and had pulled him clear enough; he had to be ready to help Bear. He would not fail his Square again….

'Fuck!' he swore to himself. The giant who had taken such delight in Beregond's pain loomed up over Garad. Bear's arrow sang, taking the evil thing through the eye. From the corner of his eye, he saw the rope fly, saw more clearly as it dropped around Garad as neatly as any bullock in the field.

"Pull!" Damrod bellowed to the villagers and they leapt on the trail of rope behind him, pulling with a will. Faramir already had another arrow placed, as Garad was jerked backward, toward the dubious safety of the little rescue party. He heard Garad swear, saw him fight the pull, going toward the fallen Beregond.

Faramir ignored the hope trying to distract him. Garad wouldn't make it, Bear was too far away, the raiders were coming after them, Garad couldn't reach him before they did, and Damrod wouldn't let him try….

Abruptly, Garad stopped fighting the tug of the rope, leaning into it instead. This time, Faramir stopped the deadly flight of Beregond's arrow with an act of will as he saw what Garad had been after: The chain, and with the chain, the Man it bound.

Laughing, he gave into his heart's desire, and let his arrows sing, every death buying Damrod another second, another foot, until Garad and Bear were back with them again.

"Go," Faramir ordered. Damrod didn't hesitate, directing the villages to pick up the heavy Garad while he slung Beregond over his own shoulder, following their guides down the hill. Faramir stayed behind, falling back more slowly, keeping the range he needed to kill the few bent on finding the prisoners rather than putting out the fire. Their numbers were steadily lessening as the bodies with an arrow through eye or throat began to pile up.

Then a barrel of the raw tar exploded, its barrel burst to splinters by the swamp water heated into steam. Globs of tar flung themselves through the fire, lighting more places, moving toward the bunker. There had to be more of the stuff down there, Faramir thought, watching all of the raiders rush to stop the trail of fire heading for the underground hideout.

'Good enough,' Faramir decided, leaving the raiders to their chances with the night wind and their panic to scramble after his Men.

SCENE BREAK

"Garad!" Faramir whispered, breaking all protocols of training and common sense. His friend didn't answer a dead weight in his arms. He could hear Garad breathing at least, though the leaping flames of the burning tar tricked his eye, making shadows seem like blood-stains every where across his clothing.

Quickly, he moved Garad, slacking the chain even more than Damrod had when he'd moved Beregond, taking the strain from the Man's shoulders. He removed it as quickly as he could, not really seeing the hands reaching to help him, pulling the thing off Garad, keeping its betraying rattle to a minimum.

Stripping off a glove with his teeth, Faramir gave Garad a quick pat-down, finding nothing until he reached the left leg. The heavy linen of his trousers was tacky there, sticky with blood, but not enough for an artery to have been cut.

"Oh, no…."

Damrod's soft, broken cry pulled his attention away from his examination.

"What is it?" he demanded, clenching his bare hand into a fist against the sudden memory of it burning as it had touched the cool granite of his map table.

"They've killed him," Damrod replied. "Damn them, they've killed him!"

"Come on!" Iorlas growled. "They're regrouping; we've got to get out of here now!"

"Move," Faramir ordered, man-handling Garad up and over his shoulder. He saw white flash with red on Garad's leg, realized the blood had come from a compound fracture.

"I'll carry him," Iorlas offered.

"I have him," Faramir replied. "Lead on, damn it!"

He knew he should have let the Militiaman take Garad, rather than carry his bow as they scrambled down the treacherous slope, but somehow he couldn't do it, anymore than Damrod had been able to release Beregond. He could hear Bear moaning, his outcries muffled against Damrod's back.

'_He's alive,'_ he reminded himself. Where there was life, there was hope, but the wind had changed as the direction they were taking had. It brought the smell of tar to him and the unmistakable stink of burnt flesh.

Damrod was right. Barring a fully equipped House of Healing, Beregond was a dead Man.

Setting his jaw, adjusting his grip on the senseless Garad, Faramir tried to ignore the scornful laugh taunting him in the back of his mind. He would not let his father rule his thoughts, not now. He had not failed, he would not fail.

'_We're alive,'_ he told the mocking memories. _'And by the Valar, we're going to stay that way!'_

It would take the Valar, he realized, sliding a little down the hill, managing to keep his feet and balance through sheer luck. They were out-numbered twenty to one, hampered with wounded and civilians, and their enemy had reinforcements on the way. It would take a miracle for any of them to survive, and unlike Boromir, miracles weren't his specialty. He made-do with careful planning, practiced skill, detailed preparation, and occasionally, good luck.

He'd run through all of them this time, and was two Men down from where he had begun. He found himself wishing with all his heart that the waving grass around them would part to reveal Boromir, growling at him for not obeying orders, but he was well and truly on his own now.

Somehow, someway, he would save them, he vowed silently. He would save them all, if he had to kill himself to do it.

"Over here!" a Woman hissed, and he turned toward it, realizing they had reached the flat below the hill. The strongest of the Villagers were there, led by the small woman Iorlas had freed first. They had two stretchers ready, of reed mats and the hafts of the dead guard's spears.

"I told you to go with the others!" Iorlas hissed back.

"Shut up," she told him firmly, taking the bows he was carrying out of his hands.

"Help me," Faramir ordered, and the Man reluctantly gave up the argument he knew he could not start, not here, not now. Together, they got Garad down on the stretcher, and Faramir got his first good look at his friend's broken leg.

His heart sank we he saw it. It would need surgery, traction, all the things waiting leagues away in Osgiliath. More than likely, Garad would lose his leg, lose his place as a Ranger, and maybe even lose his life.

"We haven't got time," he heard Iorlas protest, and turned to see Bear face down on his stretcher, his bare back an abomination even in the weak light.

"I get this hemp in him, or he gives us away," Damrod answered shortly, and Faramir turned away, using the excuse of taking his bow back from the Woman to keep from seeing Beregond's trousers taken down. It was the quickest way to quiet his misery, and there were jokes in plenty about it, and he'd been in more than a few tavern fights when the wrong person had told the joke. It was true every Ranger carried the waxed leather tube, smeared in goose-grease and protected in a waxed paper sheath, and the leather flask with its potent brew of herbs. It was almost a rite of passage, 'taking it in the ass', the war story that proved you were one of the tough ones, a real Ranger, someone who had lived against the odds….

"You all right?" the Woman asked him.

"Quiet," Faramir told her. "Move!"


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

A/N

Many thanks again for those incredibly beautifully composed reviews! Yes, these men have almost become real living beings to us, too, as if ME of our AU has come into reality! LOL. Seriously, we do try to write as if it's actually happening, which meant I wrote the 'torture' scene in one hit because Iwanted it over with fast! Eleanor rightly insisted I go back and rework it, but at least, I'd already 'freed' them, so to speak. Fitting in Faramir's scenes, timing -wise, was difficult figuring, but we got there. Also, I know you'll soon see how there was no way we could have rescued Bear unharmed and still had tense story full of more action.

Now, sit back and enjoy Eleanor's Boromir following his instincts and also the way the story title came about! Eleanor too, says to tell you Reveiwers, thanks much "it's nice to have reasoned comments. The enthusiasm is also appreciated, doubly so because it's so articulate and encouraging!"

Carolyn

PS Thank you Peersrogue, for a wonderful follow up story idea! Yes, the telling of Garad's rescuing Bear, and Faramir and Damrod them both, would indeed be a epic tale about a camp fire. And perfect for Battle Scars, a continuing series of stories I've been doing in which the Hobbits Merry and Pippin, ask Boromir, Faramir and Garad into a Battle Scars competition!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"What is it?" Theodred demanded, reigning in next to where Boromir stared into the black night ahead of him, far from the questionable safety of the road.

Boromir didn't answer him, just kept staring ahead, into the darkness of this damned cloudy night hiding the Moon's help from them. His horse moved uneasily under him, and Theodred patted his neck to calm him. He could feel Eomer's gaze burning into the back of his head, and could well imagine what his cousin was thinking about this latest peculiar behavior. The drumming of hooves on the ground behind him told him he would not have to wait long to hear for himself.

"Do we rest here, then?" Eomer demanded, pulling up beside Theodred. "It's past time for rest, for Men and horses!"

"Peace, Cousin," Theodred cautioned, raising a hand to quiet Eomer. Perhaps it was the oppressive quality of the night, or something about the set of Boromir's jaw, but Eomer kept his reply to a mute, seething glare that should have slain both he and Boromir where they sat.

"We go this way," Boromir finally said.

"No," Eomer stated flatly. "Not until daybreak. I won't take Men and horses across terrain they do know when they can't see it. This…." Eomer waved at the nothingness in front of them. "It would be murder!"

Boromir turned to look at him, and even in the dimness, Theodred could read the fear in his friend's eyes.

"You're right," Boromir agreed, his voice reluctant. "When morning comes, head North-east."

Then he was gone, streaking out across the unknown plain.

"Follow in the morning," Theodred commanded even as he set his heels to his horses flank, following Boromir before he was swallowed from his night by the grasping night."

"Fuck!" he heard Eomer swear behind him, not surprised when it was followed by the piercing cry of his rallying horn.

Grinning, Theodred tucked his head low between his horse's ears. The rolling drum-song of hooves on ground rose to the sky, singing in his blood as love took Man and beast on the kind of ride only Gods and heroes were allowed to survive. More horns answered Eomer, ringing in the night, daring the danger in the darkness. He was close to Boromir now, close enough to try and reach out for the reins and halter, to try and end this madness, but he did not. He reached instead for the horn that had once belonged to Eorl the Younger and let it sound with the others, joyful and defiant.

The melody of it seemed to please the fickle moon, for it showed its face at last, turning the dirt and the tussocks of grass to silver. The clouds swarmed to cover it, but somehow could not manage to douse its light. Theodred saw metal flash to his left, and a moment later heard the deep-throated, valiant cry of the Horn of Vorondil answer the fealty of Rohan. It seemed to call the Wind, swirling from the West to break the clouds apart, the swift magic of it shivering down Theodred's spine.

SCENE BREAK

"Easy. We have you both. It's all right, it's all right."

Garad heard Damrod's voice, felt Damrod's hands at his chest, trying to hold him down as he struggled and sobbed, seeking Beregond. The chain was no longer about his forearms; his wrists were no longer bound.

"Quiet now, quiet; they'll hear you."

"B-Bear…?"

"Right here. You saved him."

"No." Garad shook his head slowly, the vision stark and indelibly etched of strips of black and red flesh, agonized screams, fire….

"No." He heaved a great gasping breath, trying to stifle the sobs that shook him.

"Garad, listen to me."

Faramir, close by, bent over someone…. Beregond?

"Bear's alive. We have boats. We can get you both out fast. Hang in there."

"Boats?" he murmured.

"The barges," Damrod explained. "They're not far now."

"He did good work to start that fire," a strange Man's voice said. "Quick thinking."

"Garad's like that," he heard Faramir say tersely. "Help me lift him, hold his leg steady. Careful now!"

More pain brightened the darkness, then it softened to black velvet. Awareness returned a moment later.

"… them gently, now," Damrod was saying, his voice low and urgent.

"They are trying!" A woman's voice snapped. "The track is rough and we can barely see!"

"Elena…" Garad muttered. Fuck, he was going to be in so much trouble when he got home….

"Who's Elena?" the strange Man asked.

"His sweetheart, you idiot!" the Woman answered.

'_Either brother and sisters, or lovers,'_ Garad thought to himself, marveling at his coherency.

He cracked his heavy eyes open but could see nothing but solid black. Was he blind? It couldn't still be night, so much had happened. Other shapes blotted the night at Garad's side, another make-shift stretcher. Reed matting pressed into Garad's back, the edges sharp and digging painfully, forcing him to shift a little….

"Bear! His back is burned!" he blurted out hoarsely.

"We know," Damrod answered in an urgent whisper from close behind. "We're taking care of him, don't worry."

"Where are we…?" Garad demanded, struggling to lift himself on one elbow. Firm hands pushed him back, with a familiar gentle strength.

"Stay down and stay still, Ranger," the Woman told him softly. "We haven't got your friend out of danger yet."

"We've got a bolthole," the Man explained. "We can hold them off in the front while we go out the back, out onto the river."

"If we can make it before their reinforcements arrive," the Woman said darkly. "And we'll stand a damn sight better chance of that if you stay quiet and do what you're told, like a good boy."

"Not far now," the Man said with a forced cheerfulness that told Garad he was lying. Then someone cursed and stumbled, rocking the stretcher, and blackness overtook him.

When Garad next opened his eyes, river-reed and fish-oil lamps dimly lit a muddy stone arch over his head.

'_The bolthole,'_ he realized, turning his head immediately despite the pain the movement gave his leg, searching for Beregond.

He found him quickly, lying face-down only a little way away from him, his forehead pillowed on someone's bundled cloak on a stretcher close by. Damrod was bent over him but there was nothing he could do here for burns beyond keeping them clean and wet, and keeping Bear unconscious.

"The river must guard our backs," Faramir was saying from somewhere ahead where the light was brightest. "How many of your people managed to take weapons from the dead?"

"Most."

"How many usually come for the tar?" Faramir asked.

Fuck. The bastard's had managed to put the fire out too soon. They still had the lion's share of the wretched stuff.

"Fifty, easily. They switch out a third of their Men every load."

"Iorlas! Captain!" A breathless voice and more shadows as someone arrived from outside. "They're here! Coming from the other side of the river!"

"Damn!" the Man swore. "Something must have diverted them, they never come that way!"

"They'll see the trail we've left; we won't have time to get everyone into the boats!" Garad heard the Woman say, and he heard her Man swear.

"Not if they have something else to look at," Faramir replied. "Get my Men and your people out of here, and get word to Osgiliath as quickly as you may."

"Captain –" Damrod's shadow fell across Garad as he stood up, moving to block Faramir.

"You have the Square," Faramir commanded, his voice brisk, terrifyingly calm and business-like. "Do your duty, Sergeant."

Then he was gone, Garad's desperate grab for his feet as he ran past him missing badly. He almost passed out from the pain, then Damrod was there, putting him on his back, arranging his splinted leg quickly.

"Look after Bear," he said, squeezing his hand once. Then he was gone, too.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

A/N Ok, this is where I wrote some Faramir POV for a change! This scene was so incredibly vivid in my mind, that, in the end, I couldn't NOT write it. It's what started this story – Eleanor called me to say she could see Faramir standing as in this scene but not how it finished. Then we both got to thinking... as you will see!

Also, it's my turn to quote! Wow, thank you KiwiClover for saying it so movingly for all of us re these characters, soldiers – "And yet, I am glad neither of you, as you said, 'pulled any punches.' The grittiness, the danger, the harsh reality of a nation at war...this is the world in which these men live. It is imperative that the reader be shown that these good, decent men have gone through unspeakable ordeals; that faced with the severity of combat they have had to be severe in return. The fact that they can do so and remain as noble as they are is true strength of character. Bravo to you both for giving voice to this facet of these men in such a poignant way! It is one thing to say plainly "these men are noble and brave in the face of death" It is quite another thing to *show* it, the way you have done here."

BRAVO! WELL SAID KC! Eleanor or both feel that the men make the story, we just accept dictation! So, any kudos are all theirs.

- Carolyn

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"_Cross the fucking river and I'll wring your damn neck!" _

Boromir's voice echoed through his mind, shivering down his spine, stopping Faramir short. A stream rippled beneath the heavy grey sky, threading its way east toward the Anduin, creeping through fog-shrouded reeds and towering swamp grass. It oozed over the toes of Faramir's boots, the muddy water at its edge as thick and black as Orc's blood.

So, this was the crossing Boromir had foreseen. He couldn't help think it was a piss-poor excuse for a river, but there was no help for it now.

Lunging forward, his boots went ankle deep into mud and sludge. His left hand holding his bow string-up on his shoulder, he used his right to push aside clumps of fog-damp bulrushes, his strong hand ready to pull sword or dagger should he need it.

He gathered speed, sprinting into the open, shallow ford, heedless of treacherous footing, of mossy stones unseen beneath the rolling white mist. Somehow, he knew this place, could trust his footing….

All his attention focused forward, his mind racing, wondering how best to take down most of the enemy before they killed him. An icy dawn breeze cooled his sweaty face, pushing long wayward strands of sticky hair back from his brow and eyes. Water splashed loud about him, shattering the peace of the new day.

"_Get a haircut."_

He heard Liel's calm voice, felt her fingers unknowingly hurting his shoulder, her grip tense with fear.

"_Bees…." _

The death of her boy, she said. But he was her boy now….

They were all her boys, her brood of bears….

Sudden, shocking in its intensity, sunlight flared forth, escaping the murky, brooding clouds low in the east to his left and fanning through the narrow foggy river valley in a bright spear of hope. A brilliant, stark square of glimmering gold leapt into life before him, on the other side of the river. He squinted against its dazzling sheen, realised it was a sandstone escarpment reflecting the burst of light.

Immediately below it ran a vivid liquid black narrow band: The River, or all he could see of it from the middle of the ford and the low clinging swathes of pearl-grey fog.

Death waited here, patient, silent, smooth and still, dressed in squares of black and gold. Whose death remained to be seen, he silently vowed, choosing to see a warning instead of a curse in his vision.

The escarpment rose abrupt and sheer, towering thirty feet above the stream, emerging from a thick carpet of tussock grass, boulders, and reeds. An idea blossomed, became a plan, a chance at life for all he sought to protect.

He left the shallows, momentarily entering deeper water, the fog parting, the water catching and reflecting the sun in a shower of golden droplets about his running boots. He forged on into the dense, bordering reeds, slowed to avoid tripping on black rocks whose sharp teeth emerged from the mist.

Time slowed; his racing heart thumping as loud as the approaching thunder of hooves. He slowed almost to a stop, searching for the faster way up to the plain, swiftly studying every detail of the golden rock wall that stood above him. To his right was a dark shadow, a thin ribbon winding upward, a rough track where herd animals had made their way down to drink. The escarpment was about three times longer than it was wide, the perfect trap.

He veered toward the track, running hard and feeling the beginning rumble of the storm of horses coming closer, closer. His gloved hands grabbed at the loose stony scree of the track and he climbed quickly; his breathing harsh and ragged in his ears. He slipped a little, lost ground, cursed as his face met sharp rock and blood trickled warm over his cold cheek. Close at his side was another etched line of black against the gold dawn on sandstone. It was a ledge, not much wider than a man's body, tufted with spiny grass, ten feet or so below the lip of the rise.

He nodded understanding and thanks to the unseen Guardians who directed his Sight, his mind as cold and sharp as the crystalline light. He scrambled onward, came clear of the golden wall to stand on the grassy embankment that opened before him to stretch almost unbroken to the brooding forest, blue hills and white capped mountains far to the south. A vista beautiful and unbroken but for the dark blot, growing quickly larger, a knot of undisciplined cavalry, loosely ranked, galloping toward the thick black smoke pall of burning tar that they would have spotted from miles back.

"_They never come at us from that direction."_ He heard again the escaped militiaman's puzzled words.

Good, there was yet a chance they might not know the dangers of the terrain.

Faramir pivoted, looked back toward the stream. From this vantage point, the sloping angle combined with the dawning sun flooding the valley would blind the enemy to the trap; hide the abrupt, deadly drop. Instead, the benign thigh-high yellow grass appeared to flow seamlessly, gradually down, blending without interruption into the waters of the ford.

It would seem an easy crossing for horses at a full gallop, an exhilarating ride for me intent on killing, thundering to the hunt. All it needed now was the bait to attract their attention.

Faramir turned back, feeling the ground tremble more violently now as he pulled arrows swift and sure from the quiver slung at his shoulder. Again and again he plunged them into the earth, eight, nine, and ten. Leaving them standing ready for his retreat, he charged forward another twenty paces.

His attempt at placing a second set of arrows did not go well, the topsoil much thinner and stonier further from the river, unable to hold his barbs against the rumbling threat. The draw from over his shoulder would have to be fast enough. Lifting his head, he saw there would be no time for a third set.

He drew a deep draught of fresh dew-cool morning air and felt a fierce joy flood him. He had been born for a day like this!

Every detail etched sharp in the clarity of the moment. The long damp grass, woven with tendrils of fog, brushed against his thighs, the trembling rising through his boot soles, stronger and stronger. He braced, spreading his feet, steadying his balance above the rhythmic, throbbing thunder rolling toward him.

He nocked the first arrow, its wooden shaft and soft yet firm fletching a familiar comfort against his fingers. He picked his target, aimed, drew, fired. The leading rider fell, tangled in his stirrups.

A sharp wordless cry, gathered up by the others into the eerie Southron battle cry, a ululating, high pitched challenge.

They had seen him.

Good. They were veering about, coming straight at him, straight into his trap.

In that short moment, another two horsemen had gone down to his arrows, one flung backward over his horse's rump to slam into the horse behind and cause it to stumble. Another arrow, another enemy down. Faramir picked them off one by one and the survivors cries broke to bellows of outrage and murderous hatred. Some, he knew, would hope to take him alive, to mete out vengeance more satisfyingly.

He missed the fourth short, stumbling as the stones beneath his boots shifted, the roar and beat of hooves and war cries deafening, rolling down on him, faster and faster. The horses were beautiful, magnificent in their speed, manes flying, chestnut and bay and black muscles bunched and released in a rhythmic song against the blue sky and whipping yellow grass. Sadness came to him, knowing such beauty would be short lived and end in blood and screams and suffering. For the enemy, he had no pity, his innate sense of mercy drowned out by Beregond and Garad's screams.

Everything slowed the deadly wall of horse flesh towering higher and closer until there was nothing else in his sight. Still, he fired, again and again, smooth, swift and clean, the clear sure grace of it a pleasure thrumming in his veins.

Then, abruptly, the sense of slowing snapped back into chaotic frenzied noise, smells and too-fast motion.

Horse sweat, dust, clods of grass torn up, silver swords swooping, held high at the ready. The enemies' dark eyes gleamed murder from between bright scarves wrapped about their swarthy faces and streaming back in the wind of their furious gallop. He turned away from them, sprinted toward the river, their jeers echoing above the thunder of hoof beats.

They thought he had broken but their contempt was strangled in their throats. He reached the second set of his arrows, turning and firing all in one movement, killing another two who fell almost on top of him.

He was out of time.

He jumped, iron horseshoes flashing against the blue above him as the horses began their hopeless leap. He hit the outside edge of the ledge with a painful, thudding impact and tried to lift his arms to cover his head as he rolled backward toward what safety the bank of the hill offered. Something hard and heavy struck him about the back of the head and his shoulders, and horses and Men screaming together twisted through the blackness claiming him.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

A/N Back to Eleanor writing Boromir to the rescue! Also thanks to Peersrogue and Acacia and Susan, too, for the wonderful reviews. We are both so pleased to read the emotional reactions we so hoped to create by telling this intense story.

Re Battle Scars, it's a series, I've done two, and will post both at FFNET eventually. I also have another Boromir survives Amon Hen story titled A FAR GREEN SHORE, that I will post here too, and some other stories. And I'll write Battle Scars three in which the Hobbits will ask Garad about the scar on his leg.

Thank you for the idea! – Carolyn

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Wait!" Theodred cried, lunging yet again for the bridle of Boromir's horse to pull him up. "Dawn is almost here! We must wait for the light; the horses can't see where they're going!"

The look Boromir gave him was as wild-eyed as his lathered, laboring horse. "There's no time! Damn it, Thee, can't you feel it?

He could feel it, though whether it was Boromir's anxiousness he was feeling or something else, Theodred couldn't say.

"Walk the horse," he ordered, keeping his hand on the bridle. "You've damn near killed him, Boromir!"

"It's gone wrong," Boromir fretted, urging his horse onward.

"What's gone wrong?" Theodred demanded for what had to be the hundredth time.

"I don't know, damn it!" Boromir cried.

Theodred felt his horse change its stride, its footing accommodating a change in the terrain invisible under the tall, thick grass.

"Higher ground this way," he said, leading both horses in the direction of the slight rise.

As their course also took them forward more or less in the direction Boromir was straining toward, he allowed it, rising in the stirrups to try to see through the glare of the cresting sun and the dim, grey light and morning fog it threatened. Behind him came the thrum of hooves, Eomer arriving from the rear, ending his turn of resting his horse. His liegeman Gamling came with him, coming up on the other side of Boromir.

"My Lord?" Eomer demanded, using formality to help him keep his temper in check.

"Quiet!" Boromir snapped, jerking Theodred's hand off his horse's bridle to urge his weary horse up the rise.

"Fuck," Theodred swore, quietly, following Boromir where he strained his eyes against the piercing brightness of the sun in the mist. Eomer reigned in next to him, and Theodred braced himself, but his cousin was watching the shrouded river with wary anticipation rather than impatient frustration.

"The map in the ashes," Eomer murmured, and Theodred risked looking from Boromir to the horizon. Light gray and darker shadows within it, lumping, moving, but not at the prompting of a stick in Boromir's hand….

"Horsemen," Theodred realized. "But we're in the middle of a fucking swamp!"

Eomer's growl spoke volumes. It would not be the place he picked for a fight, either, especially not as the rise continued to their disadvantage. If they took the others head on, their already exhausted mounts would be charging up hill. They still had the advantage of having the sun in front of them, at least. They would not be readily seen as their foes now were, backlit into trotting silhouette, the rags of the mist clinging about them.

He looked to Boromir, and found his friend still searching the distance, as if the horsemen didn't exist.

"What's he looking for?" Eomer demanded in a loud whisper, as if afraid to disturb Boromir's concentration for once.

Theodred shook his head, shrugging, and then a Man appeared in front of the trotting horses, seeming to spring from the very Earth, his shadow stretching into eternity behind him.

"Dithen…" Boromir murmured, his face bleaching to the color of bone.

'Faramir,' Theodred told Eomer. It had to be. Boromir's brother was the only Man he would call "Little One' who also had balls enough to take on a troop of fifty horsemen by himself. But surely, surely, he was just a decoy for a waiting ambush by his Rangers?

At first, the horsemen seemed untroubled by the presence of the solitary Man standing between them and the fog-shrouded river. Then he lifted a bow and shot the leading rider from his saddle, earning their attention.

"DITHEN!" Boromir screamed, heels hard into the side of his mount. His horse echoed his scream, leaping forward at a gallop, its great heart responding where its legs should not have been able.

"No!" Theodred bellowed, throwing himself after Boromir, ruthlessly demanding speed from the horse beneath him. Freawine gave it, every instinct of his proud blood racing to catch and surpass the horse ahead of him.

"Go, go!" Theodred grunted, struggling to keep Boromir in sight through the mane flying in his face at every stride, flinging hair and sweat into his eyes. His horse's head rose and fell in front of him, chopping his view into fragmented moments of Faramir falling back toward the river, the troop of horsemen sweeping down toward him at a gallop, seeing a rider tumbling from the saddle with every downward stretch of Freawine's head.

Then Faramir was gone, not even his shadow left behind him. Boromir's outcry blended with the shrieks of horses who should have ridden over his brother as they disappeared from Theodred's sight, falling in a flailing of legs, their riders plunging to their deaths with them.

With an inarticulate bellow of his own, Theodred changed his course, angling toward Boromir. He didn't know if Faramir was alive through some trick, or if he lay broken and dying under the enemy he had lured to their doom, but he knew he owed it to the quiet young Man to try and save the brother they both loved. There wasn't a doubt in Theodred's mind that Boromir would throw himself after Faramir to his own death, heedless in the madness of his loss and grief.

Eomer's horn sounded behind him, gathering his Men. Theodred left him to deal with the scattered remains of the horsemen who had managed to pull up just short of the chasm to focus on Boromir. He was gaining on his friend, would catch up with him in another moment, well before he could be swallowed by the looming pit.

The straining haunches of Boromir's horse rose into his sight, Freawine stretching his neck out even further, ears flat against his head. Pulling the leg closest to Boromir out of the saddle, Theodred let go of the reins, trusting his stallion's competitive drive to carry him where he needed to be. He let his mind become the thudding of the horses' hooves, his gaze become Boromir's broad back, his body obey him as he had trained it to since his father had first carried his new-born son on the saddle before him.

From the edge of his sight, he saw Freawine reaching, snapping, biting at Boromir's mount, heard rather than saw the other horse falter, slow, try to fight back.

'_Now!'_ The thought screamed through him even as he launched himself toward Boromir, grappling his friend, carrying them both to the ground, using their momentum to roll clear of the horses pawing at each other.

He never saw the punch that sent him spinning into sparking blackness, could never afterwards say if it was fist or elbow, knee or heel that broke his nose, stretching him out on his back, the sky wheeling dark and blurry over him.

"…Lord?" Gamling's face swam into view above him.

"Stop him!" Theodred gasped, the words thick and nasal. Gamling disappeared from his sight, and he managed to push himself up on an elbow. Blinking blood from his eyes, he saw Boromir on his feet, roaring like a maddened bear as he tossed the Rohirrim throwing themselves at him like a club beating chaff from wheat.

'_Fuck!'_ he thought, not having the breath to gasp it aloud. The sacrifice of his nose had been for nothing, the fools had allowed Boromir to regain his feet.

Somehow, he managed to get his own legs under him, then fell to one knee to avoid Gamling's hurtling body. Pushing himself back up, he staggered forward. The only chance they had was to bring Boromir to the ground and pile on top of him, keeping him down by sheer weight of numbers. They had to do it quickly, before Boromir's last shred of sanity abandoned him and he drew his dirk.

Close enough now, Theodred threw himself into the fray, heedless of the pain and his blurred vision. He went low, under the Men flying at Boromir's chest, trying to knock him back. They might as well try to topple a Mountain.

Pain jolted through him from his head to his heels, but he managed to get his arms around one of Boromir's legs, clinging grimly to it. Head ringing, unable to see more than the greave his aching face slammed against with Boromir's every dragging step forward, he wished for the breath to curse the Men stepping on him.

A shoulder landed hard in his back, leaving him gasping, but still in possession of his prize. The weight left his back, and he could breathe again, panting heavily through his mouth. He felt arms go around his knees, heard Eomer shouting. Although he couldn't understand the words, he understood his cousin's intent. He was trying to pull him free, to leave Boromir to die with his brother alone.

"Let go!" he cried, trying to kick his cousin off, foiled by Eomer's breastplate. He tightened his grip on the leg he held, refusing to abandon Boromir, even though he knew he was condemning all of them to the pit.

"Stop! Get back! Stop!"

A woman's voice, high and shrill, cutting through Boromir's bellowing rage and the Men fighting with him.

"Get back!" Another voice, one Theodred thought he knew. "Get back, damn it!

Boromir stopped, and Eomer's weight left Theodred's legs.

"Damn it, Captain! Get back! You'll kill him!"

Hands took hold of the back of Theodred's sword-belt and hauberk collar, and this time, he wasn't strong enough to keep his grasp on Boromir's leg. He was lifted, pulled up, tossed back from the pit, and caught by unseen arms. Others who had lost their hold on Boromir weren't as lucky, being pitched backward by a blood-streaked Ranger of Gondor and ragged Men with the look of the border about them.

Boromir had been halted by a small Woman standing in front of him, her hand on his chest, looking up at him with the righteous female anger Theodred knew so well. She was perhaps the only thing that could have stopped Boromir, other than a child, and even so, it was the Rohirrim clinging grimly to his shoulders and arms, his belt, his legs who kept the straining Man from going around her to where the chasm loomed in front of them, visible now.

"Get back!" The Ranger ordered again, charging Boromir like a bull. "You'll kill him!" he said again, putting a shoulder into Boromir's chest and pushing him backward.

"No!" Boromir cried, shoving back like some ancient shackled Giant bent on pulling the world to ruin. "He lives! I know it! Let me by!"

"You'll collapse the bank on top of him!" the Ranger shouted back, grabbing Boromir's hair, pulling him nose to nose. "He's on a fucking ledge under the lip of the bank! Get back, or you'll collapse it on top of him, you stupid bastard!"

"I…."

Boromir faltered, and Theodred left the support of the Men who had caught him to limp toward his shield-brother.

"Boromir!" he called. "Come to me, come away from the edge!"

Boromir took a step back, the Men holding on to his legs taking their chance to finally pull him down, dragging him backward, away from the chasm.

Furious, Boromir fought them, and then the Ranger landed on top of him, his knees driving the air from Boromir's lungs with a painful grunt as his chain hauberk was driven into his diaphragm.

"Enough!" the Ranger bellowed, threatening to deliver a roundhouse slap to Boromir. Wheezing, groaning, no breath left in him, Boromir still managed to grab the Ranger's arm, but not to protect himself. This was the grasp of a drowning Man at the end of a rope.

The Ranger grabbed Boromir's hand, pulled it from his wrist, took it between both of his.

"Boromir?" the Ranger asked.

A wheeze was Boromir's reply, but there were words beneath it, words with a desperate sense to them.

"There's a ledge under the lip of the bank," the Ranger repeated. "Somehow the little bastard managed to get himself onto it, but the horses brought part of the bank down on top of him when they fell. We can't go near the edge, or we'll bring the whole hill down on top of him. Do you understand?"

Boromir nodded.

"Good boy," the Ranger told him.

'"Fall back!" Eomer shouted in his ear, the pain of it nearly tearing Theodred's throbbing head off. "Fall back! Away from the edge!"

His cousin left him to other hands, and it took all Theodred had not to go forward toward Boromir, who was gasping like a landed fish only a few steps away, a few dangerous feet closer to the edge of the chasm. He could see it crumbling in chunks now he looked, sod sinking at crazed angles as the dirt and rock below it fell away.

The Ranger got off Boromir, who rolled on his side, clutching his gut as he struggled to bring air back into his lungs. Taking him by the collar of his hauberk, the Ranger yanked him back even further from the chasm. Theodred joined him, and together they dragged Boromir a safer distance away.

Theodred sat beside his shield-brother, leaning his side against Boromir's huddled back.

"He lives?" he asked, the words croaking out.

Boromir nodded through his retching and coughing, and Theodred heard the Ranger mutter, "Thank the Valar."

"What do we do?" Eomer asked.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

A/N A special thanks too, to reviewer, Susan, for reviewing each and every chapter, even, as she says, the really tense ones! Yes, don't mess with the Rangers, the bad guys never learn that, though Garad gave this one fair warning. Personally, I have a soft spot for 'my' Garad and am proud of his quick-thinking even while hurt. Writers always give credit to the characters for thinking up the solutions – they do! Also thanks, Susan, for mentioning the rarity of in -the- present battle scenes… they are indeed difficult but also most rewarding! You can't live it with the characters if it's told after the fact. - Carolyn

"I'm going over the edge," the Woman answered briskly.

Theodred looked up, saw she already wore a rope harness, one of the border Men standing beside her with another rope in his hands.

"I'm the lightest one here; I'll do the least damage on the way over."

"How much rope do you need?" Eomer asked, as always assessing the needs of the mission.

"As much as you can spare," the Ranger answered. "And all the Men you have fit to lend a hand to them."

Boromir was trying to sit up. Theodred could help him with that at least, hauling him into a sitting position, keeping him upright with an arm around his shoulders. They leaned into one another, holding each other up like two drunkards. Boromir was still bent over his stomach, but the wheeze was quieter now, his lungs filling, the spasm of the muscles regulating them ending.

"Stay put," the Ranger ordered, his hand on Boromir's shoulder. "We're going to need you before this is over, Sunshine."

Then he was gone, jogging off with Eomer, and they were left to wait.

"He lives," Theodred reminded Boromir quietly.

"…hurt…." Boromir gasped out.

It was a statement, a shared knowing that had Boromir's head cradled in his hand.

"They're going fast," Theodred soothed. "As fast as they safely can."

Patting Boromir on the shoulder, he looked blearily around, blinking through his own pain. Bodies lay heaped around him, bleeding, broken, like the wounded waiting for the wagons after a battle. It couldn't be possible that one Man could reduce so many champions, but he himself was proof of it.

"You alright?" Boromir asked, with great effort managing to put the two words together.

"I'll live," Theodred answered. "But you broke my fucking nose. Again."

Eomer returned to them a few minutes later, accepting the hand Boromir extended to him, assisting the other Man to his feet.

"They need us on the ropes," he explained, hauling Theodred to his feet next. "If you're up to it?"

Theodred nodded, regretting the action instantly. With an impatient sound, Eomer reached out, grabbing his nose, squeezing it until it straightened with an audible crunch. He threw a punch in the agony of it that his cousin easily blocked, already breathing easier for the brutal mend.

"He's not going to go off his head again, is he?" Eomer muttered. Boromir was already far ahead of them, taking the long way round to where the ropes were ready, run over a thick log to help in their handling.

"It'll be all right."

"What if his brother's dead?" Eomer challenged.

"Then the sun will set for Gondor, and not rise again in this generation," Theodred answered, following Boromir.

SCENE BREAK

"Come on," Damrod muttered, hard pressed to stay at the distance required for the rescue.

Safe in a rope harness, the smallest of the older boys lay stretched out on the firmest part of the lip of the chasm, where the Woman Rian had gone over the edge. He would be their communication relay, and Damrod fervently hoped the boy would live to an advanced age boasting about the day he had saved a Prince of Gondor.

"She's got him!"

The boy's excitement carried back to the Men manning the ropes, prompting Damrod to order, "Steady! Steady!"

He shot a glance at Boromir, but his Captain's brother was fully in the moment, focused on the job he had. There was no question Boromir would anchor Faramir's safety rope. The Prince of Rohan had put his Marshall on the Woman's squad, taking his own place behind Boromir. The Men they had freed joined the Rohirrim not flattened by Boromir or off in pursuit of surviving raiders in manning the ropes.

The morning sun climbed in the sky, marking the long, stretching minutes while they waited.

"She's got his feet tied off!" The boy cried.

"His feet?" Damrod shouted back.

"Top half's covered," the boy answered. "She's dug out his head, and he's breathing!"

Damrod gave Boromir another glance, reassured by what he saw. They wouldn't lose Boromir to his emotions again. The brother and the Man had yielded to the Captain-General.

"Is he conscious?" Damrod called, waiting for the boy to relay the question down to Rian.

"Moaning," came the reply aggravatingly long minutes later.

"That's good," Damrod said, for Boromir's sake.

"Stand ready, she's pulling him off the ledge!" the boy called back. "On three…. One! Two! Three!"

The rope tied to Faramir's feet jerked, but Boromir didn't yield a step to its pull. Theodred abandoned the rope he held to the Men behind him, grabbing Boromir's belt and leaning backward at a squat. Damrod knew Faramir would be rotating at the end of the rope like the weighted end of a plumb bob, first one way and then the other, for Boromir didn't dare give the rope any slack to release the twist of the spin.

"Rian says lower her, slowly, about three feet!" the boy ordered.

They did carefully, slowly, until the boy cried, "Enough! Hold on!"

"As if we'd let go," Damrod heard the Man Iorlas mutter.

"Steady," Damrod said again, reaching out a hand to the wriggling, jerking rope that led to Faramir. Boromir played the rope well, grounding the spin without letting the line slack. Abruptly, the line went still, the rope vibrating treacherously, like a plucked bow-string with no arrow to spend its energy on.

"She's got him!" the Boy cried. "Now pull him up, pull him up!"

"Heave!" Boromir bellowed. Theodred scuttled backward as Boromir did just that, keeping the tension in his bracing pull. The rope came quickly, then halted, despite Boromir's heroic straining.

"Stop! Stop!" The boy cried. "His feet are caught on the ledge! Slack off about a foot on his rope!"

Boromir did so, feeding the rope slowly, slowly through his gloved fingers.

"Stop!" the boy cried again, and Boromir did so. "Now, pull Rian up, slowly! Keep going until I tell you to stop!"

"Easy lads," Iorlas ordered, starting the pull on his rope.

"Stop!" the boy commanded. "Now hold fast!"

They did, and Damrod blotted the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove, keeping it out of his eyes. "C'mon, c'mon," he urged quietly.

"Right!" the boy called. "Pull them together now, on my count!" One – and pull! Two – and pull!"

Boromir and Iorlas obeyed the child, keeping in remarkable unison for strangers out of their mind with worry.

"Stop!" the boy ordered. "Now, slowly, pull him up! Pull the Ranger up!"

It took years of discipline to keep Damrod in his place kneeling in front of Boromir, waiting for Faramir to be brought to him, instead of throwing himself on the rope that was moving slowly, an inch at a time, and pulling on it like a madman.

"There he is!" someone cried. Damrod didn't know who, and didn't care. He could see the heels of Faramir's boots, digging through the dirt of the bank, pushing it in grassy clumps to either side of his tied ankles.

"Slowly!" Damrod barked, springing to his feet. "Slowly, damn it!"

With a display of self-control that impressed Damrod even in this moment, Boromir pulled his brother onto the unsteady bank an inch at a time.

"Steady," Damrod said again, speaking this time to himself. He was too heavy to get any closer than he already was, not with Faramir's weight on the precarious upper ledge as well.

But the boy wasn't. Keeping flat, he wriggled his way over to Faramir, digging out under his legs, taking himself even further over the ledge, reaching, reaching….

"I've got his belt!" was the muffled shout. "Pull me back!"

"In time with me!" Boromir roared, beginning the chant. The ledge crumbled away beneath Faramir, but not enough to matter, not now. The boy was being lifted into the air by the strain on his harness, but despite the pain of it, he didn't let go, every ounce of his strength augmented by a ferocious Will keeping his hands locked around Faramir's sword–belt, lifting him, getting him up above the edge of the chasm, getting him onto solid ground.

"Now!" Damrod cried. "He's clear! Pull!"

He didn't have to say it twice, Boromir hauling like a mariner reefing a sail in a high-wind. A moment later, Faramir was in Damrod's grasp, the boy landing beside him, gasping and curling up in pain from the ropes that had bitten into him through his worn tunic.

"Captain!" Damrod barked, cleaning the mud and blood and dirt and grass from Faramir's eyes, nose, mouth, ears. He was breathing; thank the Valar, trying to rouse, his bound feet already bucking into the air before he was fully conscious.

"Mir!"

Luckily, Damrod wasn't on the side of his brother closest to Faramir, so he wasn't thrown aside by the other Man's charge.

"Hold his head still!" Damrod ordered, checking legs, arms chest, abdomen for any broken bone, any bleeding cut. Boromir did so, his knees against his younger brother's out-flung arms, his hands on either side of Faramir's filthy face.

"Mir?" Boromir called, his voice trembling. "Mir!" he said again, bringing his voice under control.

A moan answered him, and Boromir turned to Damrod for answers.

"Get him off this ledge," Damrod said. "There's a cavern back there, supplies and a place to strip him off, wash him off, make sure he didn't get more than a mouthful of dirt and a knock on the head."

A moment later, Boromir was standing, his brother in his arms.

"This way," the boy said, and Damrod turned to see the lad, his tunic shed, bright red crisscrosses of rope burn over his chest and waist. Behind him, Iorlas held Rian in his arms with the air of a Man who was never letting go. Damrod hoped he would have time to properly thank them later.

"Lead on," Boromir commanded, and the boy did so, taking off at a run to keep ahead of Boromir's long stride. Damrod jogged after them, joined by Prince Theodred. His Marshall stayed behind, and the veteran Ranger was grateful he could leave the raiders to competent hands. He was grateful, too, for Theodred. Boromir would need his friend, when he learned what had happened to the rest of the Men he had ordered not to cross the river.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

A/N Not so many reviews : ( Does this mean you're all losing interest? Thanks to Acacia and Susan for keeping the ball moving! There's lots more action ahead! – C

"Lemme go!"

"No," Boromir replied tersely. "Stop squirming, damn it!"

"They're coming!" Faramir cried, his churning legs and the one arm Boromir didn't have control of splashing the river water they were sitting in.

"Damn it, Mir!" Boromir swore, grabbing the arm he had let go of to try and look at the wound hidden beneath Faramir's hair and half a hill full of dirt. "They're not coming anymore, they're dead. Now hold still!"

"They're dead?" Faramir repeated for the third time in as many minutes.

Boromir didn't answer, gritting his teeth against the compelling desire to shake his brother by the arms until his teeth rattled in his head

"Did you kill them?" Faramir asked, his voice faltering under the blankness of his memory.

"You killed them, now hold still, damn it!"

Wonder of wonders, Faramir did hold still, long enough for Boromir to get a better grip on him. Damrod had been right. He wouldn't be able to keep hold of his eel of a little brother and get him clean enough to see what other injuries were looking under his muddy, bloody clothes. He jerked his head at Damrod to come lend a hand, ignoring the "I told you so" look the Ranger gave him.

"I killed them?" Faramir repeated, so much delight in his voice Boromir had to laugh. Despite himself, he kissed the side of Faramir's head, like he was four years old again.

"You did," he answered, knowing he would be answering that question again and again and again before Faramir recovered himself.

"I did?"

"Yes."

Faramir considered that a moment. "All of them?"

"All of them," Damrod lied, taking Faramir's chin in one hand and lifting first one and then the other eyebrow to check the eyes beneath them one more time. Groaning in pain, Faramir flinched away, turning to hide his face against Boromir.

"I have you," Boromir soothed, splashing water up against the now exposed back of Faramir's leather cuirass, washing the thick sludge from it.

"Hold him still while I cut these laces," Damrod instructed, wielding his short-bladed boot knife expertly, cutting Faramir out of his light armor, and then opening the outside seams of his trousers.

"Lend a hand," Damrod ordered, signaling the arriving Theodred and Eomer to join them in the river. Boromir rolled Faramir face-to-the sky, holding him steady despite Faramir raising a dirt encrusted arm to cover his eyes. Boromir blinked angrily, reminded too strongly of skinning the boy Faramir out of his clothes and throwing him into the tub along with his dogs, their day's adventure gloriously recounted and its treasures eagerly produced during the ensuing scrub-down.

Damrod took one of Faramir's legs, making room for himself between his Captain's knees. The ribald teasing normal on occasions like this was absent, Eomer and Theodred tense and silent as they waded out to their appointed task.

"Don't kick," Boromir told Faramir, somehow making his voice stern. "Mir, do you hear me? Do not kick!"

Eomer paused to shoot him a look that eloquently communicated his unhappiness with the present situation, but nonetheless was as gentle as he was efficient about removing the tall boot from the leg that was his charge. Once his job was done, he was quick enough to retreat to a safe distance. The boy who had helped them on the cliff dared to come to the edge of the river, the water lapping at his ankles. He reached for the boot Eomer held, in that odd combination of asking and demanding peculiar to children on the edge of adulthood. Theodred surrendered his boot to the boy as well, and he beamed like he'd been handed candy.

"Where does it hurt?" Damrod demanded, briskly scrubbing hands revealing pebbled skinned washed like watercolor on rough paper from the silt they had both raised and added to the water.

"My head," was the muffled answer, and then Damrod was on his ass in the water, nearly going under as Faramir's legs thrashed to find footing.

"Stop it!" Boromir barked, wrestling Faramir back down. That he got away with it told him how badly off his brother was. He should be underwater by now, instead of rocking the moaning Man he held in a futile gesture of comfort.

"Bear," Faramir gasped. "Garad! They've been hurt; I've got to get to them…!"

"They're safe," Boromir told him immediately, his not-quite-worst fears about the missing Rangers confirmed. "You rescued them. It's over, we have them."

"Hurt…." Faramir repeated, the pain nonetheless collapsing him back against Boromir.

"So are you," Damrod said firmly, his hands equally firm and ruthlessly invasive, his knife flashing in wincingly close proximity to Faramir's tackle as he made his soft-tissue injury examination. Faramir endured it, cursing, but not excessively for someone who'd dropped a hill on top of themselves.

"I don't believe it," Damrod said, sagging a little.

"What?" Boromir demanded.

"Nothing but bruises, some scrapes, and that concussion…." Damrod answered. "He's got a cat's own luck! We'll still need to watch him, make sure he doesn't start pissing blood, but as much as I can tell, he'll live, no worse the wear, if we're lucky with the head."

Boromir grunted, distracted from the cautious hope by the tensing of Faramir's muscles beneath his arms.

"Mir?" he demanded.

Faramir's reply was lost in a familiar gargle, and Boromir moved quickly, lifting and turning his brother, bracing Faramir's chest across his lap and a cradling arm that stretched from shoulder to shoulder, providing both support and the comfort of a chin rest between bouts of vomiting.

Damrod moved quickly, helping him keep Faramir steady, checking his Captain's neck and back once again. In the corner of his gaze, he saw Theodred hovering, inching closer; Eomer's restraining hand on his arm.

"That scalp wound needs stitches," the older Ranger muttered, pulling Faramir's wet hair back from his face, keeping it from slopping over into the cut he had so meticulously cleaned. "He'll be a solid bruise by this time tomorrow."

"I told you to stay away from the fucking river," Boromir seethed, keeping his voice quiet, timing his words to coincide with a bout of Faramir's heaving, so his brother would not hear.

"There's still enough raw tar a mile from here to restore the corsair fleets of Umbar," Damrod answered his voice equally low. "Those horsemen were coming for it."

"That explains the smoke," Theodred said, edging closer under the guise of scanning the smoke-pillared horizon.

"And the stink," Eomer grunted, keeping his grasp on his cousin, though he didn't try to hold him back.

"Damn it," Boromir muttered, rubbing the small of Faramir's back instinctively as he sagged, fighting to get his breath before the nausea his injury caused swept through him again. "What happened to Bear and Garad?"

"Captured."

Boromir's guts tied into a knot, his arms tightening around Faramir.

"Dead?" he managed to ask, though his mouth was suddenly desert-dry and his tongue had grown to twice its normal size.

"Rescued," Damrod answered. "Bear's badly burned; Garad's got a broken leg. They're both under cover."

"How?"

"Faramir sent them to fire the tar, while we rescued the prisoners."

"You had some success, then," Boromir said, forcing out the words a General must say, aching for the choice duty had forced his brother to make.

"If they're expecting horsemen…." Theodred said, using the excuse of the war council to join them, dropping down to his haunches beside Damrod, adding his touch to try and soothe Faramir.

"We might have horsemen enough," Eomer finished, the words punctuated by a heavy, angry sigh.

"Can we take them?" Boromir asked Damrod.

'Aye, we can, with a little help from our friends." The Ranger nodded at the Men and Women crouching low on the bank, watching over their rescuers even as they scanned their surroundings for signs of pursuit.

Boromir nodded, wondering how these people had been taken captive. If the pirates of Umbar had been involved, a select kidnapping or two to bend the rest to their will was likely. It was their way.

"Are you coming with us?" Theodred asked him.

"Eomer knows his Men best," Boromir replied. "I have gotten in his way enough on this journey, and I will serve better here."

"Better you than me," Theodred agreed. "Your _Dithen_ hits too hard for my taste."

Boromir winced. He'd be paying for that slip of the tongue for a long time, providing they all got home again.

"Capture the tar if you can, destroy it if you must," he told Theodred. He took a good look at his friend's face, noting the swelling the remnants of the blood he'd quickly washed from his face starting to flake as it dried. "Should you be riding?"

"I have a few hours of usefulness yet," Theodred assured him. "Leave this to Rohan, Cousin."

With a final touch to Faramir's shoulder Theodred rose. Eomer went with him, leading the way to speak to the freed villagers as the Marshall in command of an Eored should. With a thrust of his chin, Boromir sent Damrod after them, to brief them on what he knew, to go with them if he decided that was for the best. For once, his duty allowed him to follow his heart, though he wished it were otherwise. Faramir must not be allowed to run amuck, as his confusion would prompt him to do, possibly revealing their position to any foes. He would behave for his older brother, and if he would not, Boromir had the best chance of thwarting the Man he himself had trained since boyhood to be a killer.

Faramir choked, spat, tried to say something, his whole body trembling.

"It's all right," Boromir told him, gently guiding Faramir to rest against him, bringing the wet head to rest in the crook of his neck and shoulder. He pulled strand of wet hair from the cheek he could reach, tugging it from where it was plastered against and into Faramir's slack mouth. "It's all right, I have you. Be easy."

"Sir?" a small voice murmured.

Boromir looked over at the boy with Faramir's boots, who had crept closer to then inch by inch, until he was almost close enough to reach out and touch them.

"Would he be better inside now?"

"Yes," Boromir agreed, realizing that the trembling was more than just the aftermath of the vomiting. Naked, wet, injured, Faramir was cold. If they weren't careful, it would turn into the kind of coldness that came from the inside, the killing wound-sickness Liel had warned him about so often. "Go ask the Rider with the broken nose if he will find my bedroll and send it to me."

"It's waiting on the bank," the boy said. "They brought all the bedrolls, to help the wounded and the children."

Boromir felt a smile twitch across his lips as the boy pointedly excluded himself from either group.

"Shouldn't we get him dry first?" the boy prompted.

"Yes," Boromir answered, getting the right grip on his Brother and standing up with a great, sucking cascade of water and rattling of chain mail. "Lead on, Lad."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

A/N A bit embarrassed at having mentioned fewer reviews - you all really are most generous not only with your lovely observations, but also with your time when you truly do have such busy lives. Thank you! I will endeavour to be more patient. I can hear Eleanor snorting at the very idea! She maintains I have the Boromir personality and she ,Faramir. She's right, too! I like to write action, and she the amazing detail that gives this story its true depth and heart for which I am most grateful. Thanks, Eleanor! And here, we're back to my POV on poor Garad. Susan is right re it being disheartening to see these men so badly injured that it could be permanent, certainly for Bear... but also, Where there is life, there's hope! We put a lot of thought into how Garad and Faramir would handle the psychological scarring of witnessing what had been done to him and being helpless to stop it. Another reality of their grim world, and one most people forget when they watch the movies ... these men have been fighting a desperate war all their lives. Boromir is justified in his initial hostility toward Aragorn... where was his help? Not knowing about Thorongil, n'all. Enough rambling! Onwards! - Carolyn

Faramir was standing alone; bow in hand, his arrows flying, Men falling from their horses, dust billowing, animals screaming….

Sweat trickled onto Garad's closed eyelids, bringing him awake from the nightmare with a start that hurt his leg.

"Where is he?" Garad muttered, every moment a dragging eternity. "He can't…. He needs help…."

He turned his head on the softness of piled blankets, wondered vaguely where they'd come from as he struggled to orient himself. He thought he could hear the rumble of horses' hooves not too far off.

"It's too soon," a woman bent closer to tell him. She was one of the prisoners Faramir and Damrod had freed. "Go back to sleep now. My boy followed the others, he promised to bring us news. Sleep until he returns, Ranger."

"_Look after Bear…._ "

Again, Garad saw Damrod, eyes dark as the grave, leaning over him in the lamp lit dark. Look after Bear…. He couldn't even see him in the dimness and the wavering of his vision, let alone tend him. He could only listen to Beregond's harsh breathing as he struggled in drugged stupor to stay alive.

Never had Garad felt so useless. He needed to be out there, helping kill the bastards who had done this, who must surely find this bolthole if no one stopped them.

Again, Garad turned his head on the makeshift pillow, able to see his bow and quiver as well as Beregond's, leaning against one of the log supports just inside the cavern door, beyond reach. Outside, the day was growing slowly brighter. One Man could hold that tunnel forever, with enough arrows….

"I'm going up there," Garad said, and had the odd sensation that he had said it before, and more than once. He tried to push himself to sit up with his back to the reed wall, pushing with his good leg and gritting his teeth over pain. Cold sweat beaded his brow and his stomach rose in his throat.

"No!" the woman said urgently, stooping awkwardly for her swollen belly. She could not be far off giving birth. "Help me, Tarcien!"

A Man whose face was so battered he could only see out of one eye grabbed his arms, holding him down.

Garad tried to shake him off, but only managed a gagging fit as nausea swamped him along with intolerable pain. He struggled feebly against the impossibly iron hard grip, knowing he should be able to throw his injured captor from him like a child's doll. He felt he couldn't as much as fight off a rabbit right now. But it was a tunnel, the enemy could only approach them one Man at a time. He could pick them off easy, if he could convince them to help him….

"I need my bow! I can stop them!" Garad meant to sound threatening but heard his own voice as no more than a thin hoarse rasp. "Listen to me!"

"Your Sergeant told you to stay here and help your friend." The Man nodded toward a sleeping but still moaning Beregond, giving Garad pause for thought for just a moment before he tried again to reach out for his bow.

The Man cursed, Garad didn't know the word, some native dialect, but he knew a curse when he heard it. "You must not move."

His pregnant wife moved into Garad's line of sight.

"You will be still," she said with quiet finality, and again he had the strongest sense she was repeating herself. Had he been blacking out? "Whatever has happened out there, it is too late, now. Be still. Do as your Sergeant ordered. Do not cause them more trouble."

"But I can stop them!" Garad tried to shout, succeeding only in making himself cough, racking more pain into his leg.

"Not when you are hurt," the Woman informed him tartly. "Let him go, Tarc. If he's fool enough to move again, he'll pass out. He'll be quiet enough then."

_I'll shoot them! _Garad tried to say, a part of him aware that somewhere his logic wasn't adding up. He dragged himself up a little but everything went grey then black, then grey again.

A gentle, wonderfully cool hand came to rest on his forehead. "You are fevered. Be still now," the Woman soothed all gentleness now.

"He should not be so hot, so soon," Tarcien said.

Garad lifted his head, wanting to assure them he only had a broken leg. He was not fevered; it was just momentary weakness from blood loss. Everything wavered again in his sight, reforming into a figure hurrying into the cavern.

Tensing, he braced for a fight, and distantly heard a boy calling, "He did it!"

The Woman left his side, moving awkwardly, and Garad thought she was crying.

"Did what?" Garad tried to ask, but the boy did not hear him. Garad tried to move closer, to grab at the youngster's leg, pull him from his mother and father's embrace, demand an answer, but the next he knew, he was lying flat once more, the reed and log and mud roof swimming in and out of view.

"And Riders from Rohan…" the boy was saying excitedly.

A much larger shadow loomed at the doorway. Perhaps the Man was right, perhaps he was fevered. It couldn't be….

"We need light!" the larger shadow ordered, and Garad felt tears rise in his eyes. Boromir shouldn't be here, he was in Edoras…..

"Boromir?" Garad whispered, carefully, carefully lifting himself up on one elbow, mindful of his leg this time. By effort of will, he blinked the shadow into substance.

Boromir's face was shrouded in pale grey dust, increasing the sense of unreality. Was this an apparition? Was this a ghost coming to guide his dead brother to the halls of Mandos? But that would mean Boromir was dead, too….

Boromir took a cautious step further into the dimly lit room. He was cradling a naked Faramir in his arms, and Garad could see blood on the side of his Captain's face.

"No," Garad moaned, the world spinning around him again.

"Damn it, 'Mir, keep still!" Boromir demanded as the Man in his arms struggled and called out Garad's name. "They're safe. They're here."

Garad blinked, squinted, watched as Boromir stooped still lower, searching for something in the confines of the narrow cavern.

"Here," the Man said. "We've got a place prepared. Put him down here."

Boromir nodded, obeying,

Uncertain if this was another dream, Garad had to know. He reached out, his fingers brushed against Boromir's very solid, greave encased leg. "Boromir?" he asked, then cursed breathlessly as his sight went to mist again.

"Damn it, Garad!" he heard Boromir say, sounding like he'd been punched in the stomach. "What the hell have you done to yourself ?"

"Faramir…" he managed to gasp out.

"It's all right, Garad," Boromir answered, and Garad sighed, sagged, let familiar hands lay him back on his bolster. "He's alive." Boromir's voice broke, shaking as he repeated, "He's alive. Just a knock on the head..."

He felt fingers on his cheek, his whole head cradled in one of Boromir's massive hands. "I told you to keep your boots dry, damn it!" Boromir grated.

"…tried…," Garad gasped. "Bear?"

There was a pause before Boromir answered him. "Alive."

Garad translated the pause to mean barely, and struggled to rise, to use Boromir as a way to get to his feet.

"Don't," Boromir told him, putting him back down. "Rest; you can only help them if you rest, and they will need you, Garad."

Yes, they would need him, when they lost Bear and their Square was broken….

"You should have seen him, Mama," he heard the boy elaborate in an excited whisper from behind them. "He killed them all!"

"The fall killed most of them, lad," Damrod corrected. Beating his gaze to obey his will one more time, Garad saw Damrod appear, crouching at his other side, flashing a seldom-seen grin. "But by the Valar, I've never seen finer shooting."

"Fall?" Garad mumbled, wondering if he had heard right, losing the fight to see more than blurring blocks of darkness and movement.

"Garad?" Damrod asked. "Can you hear me?" His hand settled against Garad's face. "Damn! You're burning!"

"I thought it was only a broken leg?" Boromir asked, turning aside from settling Faramir.

"And an ugly gash," Damrod answered. "This tourniquet needs loosening."

"He looks bad," Boromir said, sounding more worried than Garad liked.

"The stakes in the pits," the woman said. "That wood is foul. Swamp poison."

Damrod hissed a sharp breath, and Garad felt hands move from his face to his leg, working to free the tight band there. "The leg is swelling… I can't… help me get…"

Pain and heat soared and Garad sank back into silence and darkness.

"Damn it," Damrod swore, pulling at the knot around the stick they'd used to tighten the tourniquet. The flesh had swollen on either side of it, sinking it deep into the skin, and try as he might, he couldn't force his fingers under it to twist it free.

"I've got it," Boromir grunted, reaching down to take hold of the twig they'd used to twist the strip of some villager's tunic around Garad's leg to stop the bleeding. Another grunt and the twig was broken, snapped in two, the cloth it had held unwinding rapidly, a display of brute strength few could match.

"Are we in time?" Boromir demanded, tossing the remains of the stick down.

"I think so," Damrod replied, peeling the strip away from where it had imbedded itself in the leg. "The flesh is still warm."

"He's bleeding," Boromir pointed out, his gaze on Garad's leg while one hand reached out to touch his brother's arm, reassuring him, keeping him calm, keeping himself ready to prevent Faramir from catapulting up and into miss-guided action.

"Leave it bleed for now," Damrod instructed." It might clean the wound."

Turning his head, he looked at the Woman standing at Garad's feet. She was scrubbing the face of the boy who had helped rescue Faramir with the stained cuff of her sleeve, the fingers of her other hand white on his arm.

"You said the wood of the spikes that cut him is foul?" he asked.

"It's orange wood," she replied. "It won't rot in the muddy scum that collects in the bottom of the pits."

"And it has the added bonus of being poisonous," Damrod sighed. Steeling himself, he looked at Boromir. "We should take his leg now, if we want to be sure of his life."

"Orange wood is not a deadly poison, just an irritant," Boromir answered. "Can we delay, without risking his life? Can we give him a chance?"

Damrod considered it, wavering. If they took Garad's leg, Boromir would be the one to do it. They had no saws; it would be the strength of Boromir's arm and the sharpness of his Numenorean sword that would do the deed.

"It needs a surgeon. Faramir might be able to do it, with the proper tools and a clear head."

"We have neither of those,' Boromir sighed. "What about Bear?"

Damrod shook his head. "His back…. I don't have what I need to treat burns that deep. I can keep them from drying out; I can keep him out of pain, for a little while, but…."

"The Southron's have medical supplies," the boy blurted out.

"Where?" Boromir demanded, turning to the boy. Damrod saw his mother pull the child away from his eagerness, hiding him at her side, behind the bulk of her pregnant belly, instinctively protecting him from the Man who would eventually take him from her.

"In their stockade," a Man answered, limping up to them, a young girl of perhaps seven clinging to his waist, a toddling child in his arms, his face a solid bruise.

"Do they have honey?" Damrod demanded.

"Aye," the Woman answered. "There is a small barrel of it. They keep it for the leaders."

Hope flared momentarily in Damrod, but he crushed it down when Boromir turned to look at him, as eagerly as he had the boy.

"It still won't buy us enough time, not for either of them. It will take days to get them to the Houses of Healing in Osgiliath, and they don't have days."

"Not if you take the river," the Man said.

Damrod shook his head. "The cargo barges are too slow, and if a storm comes up, they'll have to be dragged ashore to weather it. Horses would be faster.

"The commander has a ship," the Man explained. "Small, fast, with a mast. They've had us mending the sails, caulking her planks, tarring the bottom. She's ready to sail, if you have the Men to man her. She's behind the fortress, Iorlas can show you."

The feeling of hope clawed its way back to the front of Damrod's being. "Her Grace could make the difference for Garad, at least."

"Go," Boromir ordered. "Tell Theodred and Eomer what must be done; I will take care of them while you are gone."

"When the water has boiled, clean the leg, then re-apply the tourniquet, but keep it loose."

"I know what to do," Boromir reminded him quietly. "Now go."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

A/N – This is one of my favorite chs, in which Eleanor paints a wonderful background introduction for Ciran, who is a grown Ranger in Rapid Peril. Enjoy! Thanks again to the reviewers- love this comment from Peersrogue. Also want to say wb to Sic Vita Est – love your reviews, too! – PRogue says - 'These moments you interweave between the present dangers and heroics remind the reader that in Gondor or indeed anywhere else ravaged by war without end, the golden gleams of times of peace and plenty thread through peoples memories keep them going just that one more step, that one more hill, that one more battle.

Exactly! Thank you! – Carolyn

Chapter Nineteen

His Ranger was quieter now, in the darkness where only a few reed lamps burned, to allow the wounded to be looked after by the adults who weren't asleep. He glanced over at his mother, sleeping on her side, a pack for a pillow to support her enormous belly. His father slept beside her, curled around her, snoring gently in her ear, the only thing normal about anything around him. His sisters slept together within hand's reach of their mother, but he was on the other side of them, the dirt hard under his elbows as he propped his chin in his hands.

He didn't know how they could sleep, knowing that less than a mile away, the Rohirrim had finished off the raiders who had tormented them so long. His father had said they all must sleep, to get what rest they could while the barges were being loaded with the tar they had worked so hard to claim from the swamp. He supposed it was sensible, for there was a long trip ahead of them, but had a feeling it was more to make his mother rest than anything else. As for him, he hadn't even tried to sleep, barely managing to keep still and keep his breathing low and even long enough for the rest of them to drop off.

He'd already managed to turn his feet where his head should be, with no creaking wooden bed-slats to give him away. He could see His Ranger better, and watch the big Man who had had stayed behind to care for him and the others.

The Man was on the move again, checking on the one with the broken leg, tightening the tourniquet, emptying the bowl his wound was draining into, adding more sterilized water to the bandages of the burned Ranger.

The Man was dressed like a Warrior, and moved like one, too, even in wet clothes and dripping mail. When he'd pulled off his armor, after word had come that the tar had been secured and sentries set, he'd looked twice as big out of his clothes than in. Even in the dim light of their man-made cave, you could see the hint of interesting scars in interesting places.

He wriggled forward a little, pausing to take his blanket off carefully. There was nothing for it should his parents wake, or his sisters rat him out, but you had to chance things sometimes. He could always say he had to piss, he could usually produce that excuse readily enough.

It wasn't like he was going to bother anyone, he just wanted to make sure His Ranger really was all right. And it was hard to sleep. He couldn't find a comfortable position where it didn't make his chest ache or his back hurt, not even on his side. The ointment the old Ranger had given his mother had helped at first, but was wearing off now.

His Ranger stirred again, groaning, trying to roll from his side to his back, where it had been bruised so badly by the falling rock and dirt of the embankment. It brought the Man back to sit at his side.

"Hush, _Dithen_," the big Man murmured, and he could see the Man's big hand start to move again, stroking the head under it, like his mother would pet his head when he had a stomach ache to soothe him.

"Have to get back…." His Ranger muttered, starting to move under his covers. "Got to get them out…."

"I have them," the Man said, in a voice so firm it seemed to rise from the Earth beneath them. "I have you all."

His Ranger settled under the quieting words and touch as he had all day and all night, as they waited for their chance against the raiders. He'd heard it was bad for someone who had taken a hit to the head to sleep so soon after, but His Ranger wasn't really sleeping, he was enduring.

He knew he should do the same thing, but he couldn't ignore the burning soreness or the smell of the wounded in the darkness, or his empty stomach, not without something else to concern him.

So he watched the Man's hand move, counting the regular rhythm of it, watching the massive hand stroke the dirty hair away from His Ranger's cleaner face, bringing the length of it down behind the ear but pulling it away from the neck. He approved, because he knew that was where your hair bunched when it was long, got intolerably hot and sweaty if it was left on the back of your neck. He wondered how the Rohirrim could stand it, especially under their heavy helms.

He shifted under his tunic, wishing he could scratch the scrapes, but that would wake his mother, so he concentrated on the profile of the Man who had fought so hard to get to His Ranger. It was nicely lit in the dimness of a reed light on the shelf behind and above them, so the Man could see his charge clearly through the night.

The Man had a big nose, maybe the biggest one he'd ever seen, including old Ragnar at the Crossroads Inn. Of course, His Ranger had a hooter that could blow up a storm, too. It was even bigger than the soldier's who was taking care of him. They came from the same family, of that he was certain.

The Man had to be a soldier, maybe even one of the Tower Guard. He might dress like Rohirrim, and he might ride like one, but like His Ranger, this Man with the profile of a statue in the Old City was of Gondor. He had to be Numenorean.

Abruptly, that profile turned toward him. He froze, but knew he'd been caught. The weird lighting made the soldier's face grim, even eerie, in a way that made goose-feet flap wet down his spine. Not liking the feeling, he decided it was better to be hung for the deed rather than the intention.

"Is he sleeping?" he whispered.

The soldier shook his head. "He is… troubled," the Man whispered in reply.

The goose feet did another run, but this time for entirely different reasons, and he wriggled forward, carefully, quietly, drawing close, making sure to snag his blanket with a foot. It was cold, and His Ranger or his Ranger'sguardian might need it. He'd thought about putting it over his sisters, as the crisscrossing heat over his torso made it intolerable for him to bear, but he didn't want to risk waking the little squawkers up.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"You should be asleep," the soldier admonished, but he moved just a little, in a way that seemed almost like he was making room.

"I can't," he answered, though he didn't offer an explanation. Let the Soldier choose whichever one he liked best of the ones available around them. He got as close he dared to both of them, peering at His Ranger's pain-creased face. "He keeps saying the same thing."

"He's concussed, or that's what the healers call it. Addled is what they mean. It'll be worse tomorrow. He won't remember anything you tell him from one minute to the next."

He considered the answer, squirreling the word away in his memory. He'd ask his father to spell it in his lesson-book later, when he could start a new lesson-book.

"Why didn't you go with the riders?" he blurted out, wishing he hadn't when the Solider didn't answer.

"Because I am needed here," the Man finally said. The answer took a long time to come, but there was no reluctance to it, just sadness with an edge of anger the boy was sorry he had poked, however lightly.

"I'll watch him for you, while you're gone," he offered. "I don't mind if he asks me the same thing over and over again, I'm used to it. I've got sisters."

The soldier laughed, quietly.

Encouraged, he asked, "Is he your son?"

He thought it a reasonable question, as he'd only heard parents or grandparents use "Dithen" on someone who was grown. It was a baby name, not a name for Rangers, not unless the Ranger had been your baby once.

"He is my little brother," the soldier answered.

"I want a little brother," he confided. "But Mama says that's up to the Valar."

"Will you be so disappointed with a sister?"

He thought about that a moment. "No, they're all right, I suppose. But I think I'd like a brother, all the same." He paused, thought about to say next, and decided on the obvious, especially since it seemed like all of the adults had gone out of their way to avoid asking it. "What's his name?"

"Faramir. What's yours?"

"Ciran."

"Well met, Ciran. I am Boromir – and I am in your debt."

He felt his face flood with heat, and was glad the soldier couldn't see the color that would have gone with it. He accepted the big hand held out to him, marveling at the careful strength in its grip. He didn't know what else to say, so he asked a question he already knew the answer to, to try and learn what he really wanted to know. He'd learned that much from his sisters at least.

"Are you a Ranger, too?"

Boromir smiled. "I am a soldier of the Tower Guard."

"The Tower Guard," he breathed. "Were you named after the Steward's boys, then?"

Boromir laughed again. "Yes, I guess you could say we were."

"Have you met them? The Sons of Denethor?"

I have. I can assure you, they are the same as other Men in all ways that matter."

"I'd like to be a solider of the Tower Guard, when I'm old enough."

"Oh, not you," Boromir told him, sadly. His heart fell into his stomach at the pronouncement.

"I'll grow," he said defensively.

"You will," Boromir answered. "Boys like you always do. And when you are grown, the Rangers will steal you from me, too." The Man shifted a little more, the hand that wasn't touching his brother making a "come here" gesture.

Suddenly a little unsure, he obeyed. Boromir took his arm, brought him close, turning him so he shared the ring of light with His Ranger Faramir.

"These hurting?" Boromir asked, indicating the scrapes hidden beneath his ragged tunic.

"A little," he admitted reluctantly.

"Never ignore pain when you don't have to, Ciran. Part of a soldier's duty is to keep himself fit, and that means speaking up when you need help. Damrod left his kit here, I will tend you. Peel off."

The quiet was broken by the popping suction of the broad cork from the marble bottle of ointment. He braced himself for the application, but found the soldier had a careful, thorough hand.

"There," the Man said when the scrapes on his back had been covered. "You can get the front yourself."

He took the little jar the soldier handed him, reconsidering digging his dirty finger into the ointment.

"Wash first," Boromir agreed, taking the jar back. "And don't put that tunic back on. It's too dirty."

He caught his tongue between his teeth before he could say, "But I don't have another." Instead, he crept to the side of the room where a fire had been risked in the hearth, keeping water hot. He ladled a tiny bit of steaming water, cooling it down with cold water from the pitcher standing nearby, but away from the heat. He was parsimonious with it, too, for there were many hands and hurts that would need to be cleaned, and the river water wouldn't serve for that.

"We'll need more pure water," Boromir told him. The big Man moved more quickly and quietly than he would have thought possible, moving across the room to check on the other injured Rangers.

Nodding, Ciran carefully poked up the coals before getting a second pot and filling it with the water from the canteens the riders had left them. He was even more careful about putting the pot on the rocks serving as the trivet to hold it over fire. If he doused the hearth, they would lose the fire, and perhaps lose their wounded.

When he was certain the second pot was secure, and the first pot had its clean cloth covering its precious contents from contamination, he turned back to the solider.

"Damn it," he heard Boromir mutter, the back of his hand pressed to the cheek of the equally big Ranger with the broken leg.

"Is he fevered?" he whispered.

Boromir nodded, petting the Ranger's head like he had his brother's. "But he's quiet, he hasn't started his leg bleeding again." He sighed heavily. "If we want to keep him quiet, we need to keep Faramir quiet."

"They're a Square then?" Ciran asked, watching the soldier pull the cloak serving as the big Ranger's cloak more snugly about him.

"The best one I have," the soldier murmured, rising to return to his brother. "Finish treating those scrapes," he ordered over his shoulder.

He hurried to obey, not the least because the ointment was beside the soldier, and the soldier was digging into his pack, pulling very interesting things out of it.

The tin mug was typical, standard issue, though the merrily colored pairs of socks of green and blue weren't standard by any means. Normal uniform trousers were next, dull black linen, re-enforced at the stretch points, but there was nothing uniform about the dress tunic wrapped around the white linen under-tunics the man was after.

He thought it must be made of silk, though he'd never seen silk before. It shone, yet it was deep, deep black, like a moonless night lit by the seven embroidered stars rising below its collar, the white tree of Gondor spread in bloom across the broad chest. On each shoulder, a silver helm decorated with the upward sweeping wings of sea-eagles told him his soldier was not just a Guardsman, he was a Captain of the Tower.

"Dress uniform," Boromir explained. "In case I needed it in Rohan. I think we'll find these linen shirts more useful."

Ciran nodded, not really understanding what the Man meant, until he watched him draw his dirk, cutting the sleeves from the first one. Then he cut its body in two, bisecting it along the waist.

"Here, put this on," the soldier told him, passing him the top half. "We'll save the rest for bandages. Do you know how to sew?"

He shook his head 'no'.

"Learn," the soldier commanded. "Have your mother teach you. Start with putting a hem in that. When you can, have her teach you to spin as well."

"Spin?" he demanded. "That's what girl's do!"

"It's what soldiers do," Captain Boromir corrected, sheathing his dirk and re-packing his kit, leaving the linen on the top for easiest access. "The Rohirrim will be returning soon. You should try to sleep; we'll have to move soon. We don't know if more Raiders will come or not."

"I don't think I can," Ciran replied honestly.

The Captain chuckled, a little. "I don't think I would be able to in your place, either." The Man reached into his pack again, pulling out a small, water proofed pouch. "Come over here, where the light is. I assume you know how to thread a needle?"

Scooting over to sit beside the soldier, minding where his Ranger lay, he took the hacked-off sleeves the Man handed him eagerly.

"You can practice on these," Boromir told him, reaching into the pack again, his fingers tenting out its back as they slid into some pocket inside. Another waterproof packet was produced and tossed to Ciran.

Catching it, his mouth started to water as he realized it was a ration packet, biscuits of meat and berries ground together and dried. It tasted better than it sounded, and his stomach growled at the idea of it.

"Eat first," Boromir ordered, his hand finding his way back to his brother's head automatically. "See you keep in sewing practice, Ciran, and if any should tell you sewing is not a Man's work, you tell them Boromir of Gondor says otherwise."

"Yes, Sir," he agreed happily, taking a bite, resolving to save most of it to make soup for all of them. It would please his mother, and perhaps make her overlook most of the scold about his missed sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

"Hush," Boromir urged, lifting Faramir up so he could hold him securely. He knew all too well if he tried to hold his brother down in his bedroll, he'd have a fight on his hands. Things were too close in the hideout for that kind of fuss, and even if they had all the space in the world, his little brother was just too damned dangerous to provoke. He'd wind up killing what he was trying to save, if Boromir played him wrong.

"They've got them…" Faramir gasped, clutching at Boromir, no doubt trying to steady his spinning head.

"I have them," Boromir repeated. "Look."

Shifting a bit for a better angle of sight on where Garad and Beregond lay in drugged quiet, Boromir took his brother's chin and gently guided Faramir's wavering gaze toward his Men.

"They're hurt…" Faramir fretted.

"So are you," Boromir reminded him. "But it's all right now. We're going home soon. Liel will take care of them."

"The prisoners…?"

"Freed, and on their way to Cair Andros with the tar." It wasn't quite a lie, as they would be on their way soon enough with an escort of Rohirrim.

"Damrod!" Faramir cried, suddenly noting the absence of his fourth Man.

"He's outside," Boromir soothed. "He's found us a boat, can you believe it?"

Faramir tried to laugh, but had to swallow it back. He closed his eyes, and Boromir put his hand over them, trying to block out what little light there was.

"Ciran," he called quietly to the attentive boy. "Go in my pack, get my socks, both pairs. There should be a cap as well."

The boy nodded, moving quietly, thinking of Faramir's discomfort, thinking ahead in a way many grown Men hadn't yet mastered. He'd need to keep an eye on this one, make sure Faramir did as well. If Ciran's fate was to serve Gondor through his life or his death, they owed it to him and his family to make certain he had every opportunity to become the kind of Man his character and ability promised he could be.

"We've got to get you ready to go," he told Faramir. His answer was a breathless grunt, a sure sign Faramir was struggling to keep his always touchy stomach under control. Shifting Faramir to replace the hand over his brother's eyes with his shoulder and upper arm, he brought his other hand to lightly and rhythmically rub the small of his brother's back through the cloak serving as his blanket, as Liel had taught him to do to distract her mind from her pain, when her monthly turns took her hard.

"Do you want your other shirt?" Ciran whispered.

"No," Boromir answered, equally quietly. "It's likely Faramir will be sick in the boat. It's easier to keep skin clean and dry."

He didn't add that with his brother's shifting awareness of the present, realizing he was wearing nothing but socks could give him a moment's pause, an advantage his caregivers might need badly.

"Should I put the socks on his feet?" Ciran asked.

"No, but keep them ready for when Damrod returns. Faramir's injury is such he is not always aware of where he is and what is happening. I don't want him to mistake you for an attack."

"An attack?" Ciran repeated, frowning "On his feet?"

"My fault," Boromir admitted sheepishly. "When he was very little, before he could put on his own socks and shoes, I'm afraid I was… not helpful, when asked to assist."

"Ticklish feet?" Ciran guessed.

"And a habit of going barefoot. Of course, now he can kick a horse into next week, so there's not much I can do to make him put his boots on these days."

"You shouldn't have fussed at him so much," Ciran said. "Now he'll go barefoot as much as he can, just to pinch you."

Boromir chuckled. "You are wiser than I was when I was your age. Should your mother have a son, remember this: Little brothers can grow up to be very big, very strong, and very fast."

"How long will it take for his injury to heal?"

Boromir sobered instantly. "It may not," he admitted. "Sometimes, it doesn't. It's astonishing how easily a Man can die, from nothing. A bite that festers, a fall from a horse, a tap on the head…. It is equally astonishing what some Men survive."

"Are you a healer?" Ciran asked.

"I know enough to bind a wound, or boil bandages, but no, I'm not a healer. I haven't got the brain or the gift for it. Those I love best do, however, and I have picked up some knowledge from years of being nagged by them."

"I thought you said you didn't have any sisters," Ciran reminded him. "But I suppose you'd have to have a mother, and a wife. How many children do you have?"

A country lad indeed, to assume the question to ask would be how many, not do you have any?

"My Lady and I are not yet wed," he answered, much to his own surprise.

"Why not?" the boy asked in genuine surprise.

"Because our father is a fucking wanker," Faramir answered for him, the muffled words all too clear. The boy's eyes rounded in shocked delight, and Boromir winced.

"Remind me to gag you when I tie you up," he sighed, forcing himself to shake his head in denial at Ciran. He would explain to the boy later that a crack to the head could make you babble things you didn't mean, and that Faramir hadn't meant what he had just said.

"Pervert," Faramir croaked, shivering against his nausea and pain.

"You're going to tie him up?" the boy gawped at him.

"He'll keep forgetting he's rescued you, and I can't mind him and the tiller. I'll have to tie him up, or the idiot will get us both drowned."

Faramir muttered, trying to raise his head and turn to where his collection of cherished idiots lay suffering.

"Hush," Boromir soothed, keeping him from moving while his own gaze traveled over Beregond and Garad. "I have them, Faramir, rest now."

After a moment, his brother stopped trying to move, overwhelmed by his pain and Boromir's grip.

"Will he be all right?" the boy asked him, his voice soft, uncertain.

"I think so," Boromir answered, hearing the uncertainty in his own voice. "I hope so."

"The other Ranger seemed to think he would," Ciran said, drawing a fraction closer.

"Yes," Boromir agreed, not meeting the child's gaze.

"It's the others," the boy realized. "They're the ones you think…."

Mercifully, Ciran didn't finish the thought, hugging the incongruously bright socks to his chest.

"They live," Boromir said, as much for his own benefit as for listening ears. "While they live, there is hope."

Ciran hugged the socks tighter, dropping his chin so Boromir could no longer see his face.

"That's what my father says," the boy sighed. "He's said it a lot, since…." That was a thought he left unfinished, too. Shrugging with one shoulder, he put the socks down in his lap, his fingers fiddling with them. "It's what he'd tell my mother, when they beat him."

Abruptly, the boy looked up, his hands still, his blue eyes bright, piercing, trapping Boromir's gaze like a hawk with a rabbit.

"They were going to kill us, weren't they?" the boy demanded. "As soon as those others arrived, they were going to kill us."

It took Boromir a moment, but he managed to nod.

Ciran nodded in return. "I don't know if it will help, but tell him…. Tell him I said 'thank you'. Tell them all, if… if you can."

"You will tell them yourself." Boromir told him, knowing from the tenseness of the muscles beneath his hand that Faramir had heard already, though he probably wouldn't remember; "When you and your family come with the others to Osgiliath."

Silence settled, Ciran going back to fussing with his socks, Boromir laying Faramir back down on his pallet. He tucked his cloak around Faramir's cold shoulders, checking the closed wound on his brother's scalp with careful fingers before rising to go to check on the others.

He was frowning over the racing pulse in Garad's neck when the faint, triumphant cry of horns pushed their way into the thick quiet of the barracks.

"They're back!" Ciran cried, leaping to his feet.

"Stop," Boromir ordered. "Wake your father, and wait for the all clear."

Quivering with excitement, the boy did as he was told, rushing to his already stirring parents. Boromir noted with approval that he had not abandoned his charge of the socks.

"Hang on," he muttered to Garad, moving his hand from Garad's neck to touch the back of Beregond's head. "That goes for both of you."

Then he had to leave them, for Faramir had heard the horns as well.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

A/N I know I keep quoting PEERSROGUE but she certainly has a way of summing things up from the heart! As with this - "In the quiet stretches of such a night, friendships are formed and allegiances given that weave and bond the men together and last as long as they live." Beautiful.

Also, KIWI CLOVER's observation – "in Ciran we have a great, gentle reminder that the soldiers of Gondor are fighting for their people, to preserve the world for their families..."

And, might I add, Boromir and Faramir had been doing that for decades when we meet them in FOTR, something too easily forgotten, along with the horror and grimness that is a Gondor fighting desperately and increasingly hopelessly, for survival on the front lines of a war that has lasted HUNDREDs of years. And people label Boromir a surly stupid selfish oaf for taking Aragorn to task and speaking from a wounded, bitter heart with "Gondor has no King. Gondor _needs _ no King." I say, you go, Boromir! About time someone said it!

Another important note – This from SIC VITA EST -I also enjoy how you are adding scenes that many authors may never even consider writing because it would seem unnecessary or not as interesting. However, it is these scenes of a more mundane, quiet nature that really shine forth. In my opinion these scenes highlight a true writer.

Indeed, yes! Well said.

Carolyn

"Finally," Theodred said, waving at Boromir as he emerged blinking from the villager's hideout. His friend returned the wave, making a straight line for the prize they had brought him.

"She's no pirate ship," Theodred said to Boromir as he came to stand beside, nodding at the shallow-draft, smart little ship pulled up on the bank. "They've hacked the swan's head off the prow, but you can see she's a capture out of Dol Amroth."

"She'll carry us all the better for her freedom," Boromir said, nodding in approval at the hammocks slung from the oar ports, one near the tiller, two in the wide middle of the boat, just before reaching mast with its neatly furled black sail. The villagers were working to rig tarps over the hammocks, using the mast to run a line to the slender, rising stern, tying them off on the shield hooks between the oars. It would make maneuvering a little awkward for him, but would give Damrod the most room to tend his two patients.

"That sail could be a problem," Boromir muttered.

"You'll need a third hand," Theodred agreed. "Just the two of you can't handle the tiller, the sail, and these three, especially not at speed."

"I meant the color," Boromir said. "Damrod and I will be all right. Between us we'll manage well enough. We sail with the current and the wind is on our side, Osgiliath is not long away."

"I'm going with you," Theodred informed him cheerfully.

"Eomer –"

"Won't like it, but he can't sail, and neither can any of his Men," said Theodred. "I can see well enough to handle that sail, but I'll be worse than useless in a fight if the escort of the villagers turns to that. I'm coming with you. And don't worry about the sail, we took care of it."

Boromir looked at him, clearly struggling with a hundred sensible objections. Finally, sheepishly, he said, "You'll tell Eomer?"

"Eventually," Theodred grinned. "You're not the only one getting in his way. Getting these people to safety is best left to the Marshall his Men know." His grin faded. "What does Damrod say?"

"Faramir recovers, Garad burns with fever either from poison, or something inside his wound we can't find, and Bear… is failing. The medicines you recovered may help, but his chance lies in Osgiliath."

"Then let us take him there with all speed," Theodred said, reaching out for Boromir's forearm. Boromir clasped his in return, all the fear inside him in the aching strength of his grip.

"Soldier?"

Letting go of him, Boromir turned to the Man, Iorlas.

"The Ranger says he's ready to move them now."

Boromir nodded, blotting his mustache with the back of his hand. "Prince Eomer and his Men will escort you and your people first to Cair Andros. Leave the tar there, and have the garrison commander give you a fair accounting. Bring me his inventory when you come to Osgiliath, and I will see to it you have the fair market price."

Iorlas laughed without mirth. "After the costs of our rescue and the supplies for our succor have been removed, I'm sure the Steward's Council will see fit to throw something our way."

Boromir's face darkened like a thunderhead on the horizon and Iorlas took a half-step backward, wary, embarrassed, but his head high with the truth of what he said.

"You will not deal with the Steward or his Council," Boromir said. "The Captain General of Gondor will see you have just recompense."

"Of course, Soldier," Iorlas answered, making way for Boromir to go back to the hideout to help Damrod move the wounded.

"He seems sure of that, doesn't he?" Iorlas sighed.

Theodred looked at the compact Man standing in front of him, and did not smile. "You doubt his word?"

"I am sure your friend is an honorable Man," Iorlas replied.

"My friend is Honor itself."

"Pity. Men like that will ruin their lives over things like this. His Captain General may not agree with the promise he's made to us."

Theodred smiled, letting that be his answer. "Do you know the way to Cair Andros?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Aye."

"Do as you've been told then, and see what the Captain-General tells you when you beard him in Osgiliath. Now come with me, they will need my help, and you must organize your people for their journey."

"Are you set?" Theodred called out to the Men on the tender.

"Done," Damrod replied, testing the tension bracing the rope holding Garad's leg in traction one more time nonetheless. He had made his place under the main shelter, between his two patients, the liberated medical supplies lashed firmly in their place on the deck, close to his hand.

"Ready here," Boromir answered, looking at Theodred and Eomer, waiting with the others to push the boat into the heart of the tributary that would carry the little ship and its precious cargo onto the Great River. The wind still held true at their backs, bringing what little hope they had for Beregond with it.

"You're ready?" Theodred asked Iorlas quietly. The Man was standing at the front of his little band of refugees, more than ready to follow the skiff down the river on the slow moving barges and be away from this place of evil memories.

Iorlas nodded. "Aye, Lord. We'll get the barges and the tar there, no fear. It's no good to us if this gets to the black market and the scum at Umbar, whatever the Council gives us for it."

"Right," Theodred said loudly, looking at Eomer. "Let's get her underway."

It was a dirty trick, one he would pay for later, but the only chance he had of getting away cleanly was putting Eomer on the other side of the prow, where he would not see him swing aboard the ship, or be able to do anything to try and stop him. He understood why his cousin would object to him going, but his heart told him this little boat was where he must be, as surely as any guiding dream of Numenor.

Freawine's disconsolate whinny almost gave him away too soon, but the current took the ship just in time for him jump up and grab the gently curving rail with both hands. It took supreme effort to pull his legs away from the water's pull and haul himself up so that his waist rested on the edge of the hull. Quickly adjusting his grip, he flipped over the side, into the boat. He wouldn't have made it in deeper water, without ground beneath his feet to give him a boost, nor would he have been swift enough to avoid being dragged back by Eomer's splashing grab.

Coming to his feet, he waved at his cursing cousin. "Meet me in Osgiliath!" he commanded, then ducked out of view under the tarp where the wounded Men and Damrod were, removing himself as a target for anything not-quite-lethal that might come to Eomer's hand.

Damrod was crouched down between the two low-slung hammocks. Garad lay on his back, cheeks bright with fever; his eyes darting under his closed lids. They'd tied him into the hammock, tied his hands and elbows up, even strapping down his one good leg as a precaution. A fevered Ranger, even a badly wounded one, was not something to be trifled with, and it was imperative they keep Garad still if his leg was to heal properly.

They'd trussed Faramir up even more, tying him up, then stitching him into a cocooning blanket before strapping him into the hammock slung by the tiller so he would be within the reach of his brother's calming hand.

Beregond lay face down, unmoving; his back covered in honey soaked dressings, his blanket pulled up barely high enough to keep his modesty warm. They'd cut out a hole for his face so he could breathe easily, without twisting his back, and so Damrod could lie beneath him and check his eyes as needed.

"He's not happy," Damrod observed, thrusting his chin in the direction of Eomer's fading tirade.

"He didn't want to come to Osgiliath," Theodred explained, reaching out to pat Garad's arm.

"Why not?" the Ranger asked, though Theodred had the feeling it was more by habit of conversation than any real desire to know.

"Father has told him he must appear to court the Princess of the City, to please the request of the Steward," Theodred answered bluntly.

"So that's what the messenger was about," Damrod muttered, fussing with the drape over Beregond's arms, stretched out in an easy bend over his head.

"He dislikes being pulled away from his duties to pay false court to some dried-up crone in lip service to the Steward of Gondor's political games," Theodred quoted, actually managing to get most of Damrod's attention.

"So why are you the one with the broken nose?" the Ranger asked.

"I thought it best to convey my father's wishes when Boromir was not with us. My cousin is the best of Men, but he throws words like sword blows, true and hard."

"Like Boromir throws a fist," Damrod reminded him.

"I did mention it might be best if he refrained from such opinions about the Princess in front of her Champion. If he was not convinced of my wisdom at the time, I believe he is after this morning."

"We're lucky he didn't kill anyone," Damrod agreed absently, drawn back to Beregond by what might have been a moan.

"I have the sail," Theodred told him, leaving him to his work.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Dripping, furious, feeling like a fool, Eomer staggered back to the bank to face the mirth of his Men and the villagers.

He found the quiet of exhaustion and worry instead. It calmed his anger, redirecting his mind to the task at hand, a task at last unimpeded by awkward protocols of rank. His way was clear to do things as he would choose, and he was honest enough to admit the relief of that.

"I'll strangle him later," he muttered, pushing his worry for Theodred to the back of his mind as he turned to Iorlas. "Are your people ready?"

"Nearly," the Man replied. "We must eat, and finish rigging the barges for the strength of the Anduin." He paused, flicking a glance over to the fussing Freawine, then back to Eomer.

"We will ride along the bank beside you," Eomer answered his unspoken question. "We have archers enough to protect you."

"We'll have ropes ready to throw to you, if we need to seek the safety of the bank. We'll be ready to fight if there is need, Lord of Rohan."

"You'll eat with us, Lord?" Rian asked, coming to stand at the side of Iorlas. "Much of what we took will spoil quickly, and you and your people have fought hard for us today." It made Eomer smile to see the Man's arm reach around her waist like a lodestone drawn to steel.

"We will," Eomer agreed, signaling for Gamling to leave Freawine to others and join him. "Who among you has been to Cair Andros? I know it only from the maps in my Uncle's house."

"I have, and so has Tarcien," Iorlas told him, nodding toward the Man he named. Eomer followed his direction, and saw a badly beaten Man standing with an arm around a massively pregnant Woman, two small girl children clinging to her skirts and a boy with the look of his father standing protectively in front of him.

Eomer looked back at Iorlas. "How soon…?" he asked quietly.

"Soon," Rian answered for him.

"Then let us go to them," Eomer decided, leading the way.

SCENE BREAK"You bastard!" Boromir laughed, watching the square sail fill with the friendly westerly wind, bellying out to send the outline of a horse rearing above the skiff. It had been rendered roughly, though where they had found the paint or chalk or whitewash to do it, let alone the time, Boromir couldn't imagine. Then again, the raiders had been entrenched in their camp for a long time, so the Valar only knew what might have accumulated there.

"Any imposter would know to hoist a tree," Theodred called back. "How goes it?"

Boromir looked to where Faramir lay next to him in his hammock, secured like a chicken tied to a spit. He was shaded by the tarp that stretched to protect both of them from the glare of the sun off the water, but the pain of his headache was plain in his clench-jawed, frowning expression.

"We're holding," he answered, reaching out to the damp compress cover Faramir's eyes with his free hand, blocking out the minute lightness able to penetrate the cloth. The tiller was easy to hold now, in the calm current of the tributary. It would be harder work when they reached the Anduin, and colder too. Faramir's head would like that better, but Bear and Garad wouldn't fare so well.

Faramir sighed, stirred, began to struggle against his restraints.

"It's all right," Boromir told him. "Be easy. You're wounded."

"…Bear…?"

"We have him. It's all right, Mir."

"Bear…!" Faramir fretted, turning his head, trying to free his eyes from Boromir's hand.

A prickle of unease chased itself down Boromir's spine. Lifting his hand, he left the tiller to its rope for the moment, kneeling down on the deck beside his brother.

"He's here, he's with Damrod," Boromir soothed, leaning into Faramir's side a little, rubbing his hands up and down the blanket covering Faramir's arms. They'd left his binds as loose as they'd dared, but his movement was severely restricted. Slipping his hands through the slits they'd cut in the felted wool for the purpose, he checked to make sure nothing was cutting off circulation.

"Bear…," Faramir said again, straining to raise his head.

"He's wounded," Boromir conceded. "Damrod is taking care of him."

"Where…?"

"On a ship; we're going to Osgiliath, so Liel can help him."

It mollified Faramir momentarily, the motion of the ship and the splitting headache combining to turn his pale face a shade of green Boromir was all too familiar with. Even so, Faramir rallied enough to gasp, "Garad?"

"We have him, too. A broken leg, a fever…. It will be all right, Mir. Rest now."

Faramir subsided, panting, eyes screwed shut, doing everything he could to keep his stomach down.

"It will be all right," Boromir repeated, as much to convince himself as his brother. "I have you, I'm here. Tell me if you need to be sick."

"…fine…."

"Of course you are," Boromir sighed, getting ready to flip the hammock and hold Faramir's head. He already had a bucket beneath the hammock, rather than let the stuff linger and stink in the bilge under the single, planked deck.

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see Theodred behind him.

"Are you two all right?"

Boromir nodded. "Just a little sea-sick."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Boromir considered his answer. Faramir could be focused on Bear for any number of reasons, but it wasn't like his brother to be so single-minded about one chick when he had two to worry over.

"Tell Damrod to keep a close eye on Bear, and tell me how he fares," he finally said. "Faramir fears for him."

SCENE BREAK

"Cair Andros is ancient, among the first places the Numenorean Mariners settled," Iorlas explained, using his finger to draw an oval in the dirt in front of where he sat cross-legged. "It's an island fortress built by Elendil to guard the passage of the Anduin. The water is deep around it, deep enough for cargo vessels to moor. High walls enclose the island and reach out into the water, to make a harbor with moorings for ships traveling with the current or with the tide from the Belfalas. They are guarded well, with portcullis that can be raised or lowered according to the desire of the garrison. A lighthouse stands in the center of the fortress, rising over all. It is made in the manner of the tower guard, and it is all that is manned in these late days, though its light no longer shines out over the river."

"When will your people be ready to leave?" the leader of the Rohirrim asked. 'I'll want some of my Men on the barges, to rest, perhaps a few horses as well, if the water is calm."

"We'll be ready within the hour," Iorlas answered. "The barges will make the trip down the river, even with the extra burden, but I'll not try to take them into the harbor. We'll beach them on the river bank, and let the garrison sort out how they're going to get the tar off-loaded. It won't be our concern anymore once we've landed it."

"What about the inventory?" Ciran demanded. "We're supposed to make a full reckoning of the tar!"

"Hush, Ciran," his mother sighed, more by reflex than any real desire to scold her child.

"But he told us to! He said the Captain-General would pay us the fair price for it!" Ciran protested. "So we can rebuild what the raiders took!"

"Cir," Tarcien sighed, shaking his head. "He meant well, but he's just a soldier who made a promise he can't keep."

The boy's chin came up. "He's a Captain of the Tower Guard!"

"No, he's not," the Rider said, hiding his hand behind a yawn.

"He is!" Ciran insisted. "I saw his uniform!"

"Hard to believe, but the overgrown lunatic is the High Warden of the Tower Guard and the Captain-General of Gondor. If he's promised a fair reckoning, you'll get it," the Rider said.

"Captain-General…." Iorlas repeated with a grin. "So you'd be the Prince Theodred, then?"

"No," the Rider answered with a scowling sigh. "He's the idiot who thinks he knows how to sail. I'm his cousin Eomer, third Marshall of the Riddermark."

"Oh," was only thing Iorlas could think of to say.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Sighing, the Commander of the Garrison at Cair Andros blew on his cup of peppermint tea to cool it. For a fleeting moment, he thought about adding a spoonful of the honey he had ordered locked down in the house of healing, but gave it up quickly. The virtues of the peppermint would have to calm his stomach all on their own this morning.

Taking a sip of the tea, he put his mug down and picked up his letter to the Captain-General. He had a gnat's chance in a Nor'west gale of having his request considered, but he was going to make it anyway.

"If these raids continue to the West," he muttered, reading the last words he had written aloud to himself to make sure of their meaning, "then the resources of Cair Andros will be stretched past breaking by the influx of civilians needing aid as they progress toward Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. In order to serve the needs of the Kingdom, it is imperative that the Men and means of caring for the refugees as well as maintaining the vigilance on the River that has always been the charge of our garrison be provided."

He stopped there, considering whether he should break the sentence in two, or leave it as one.

"What do you think, _Naneth_?"

The large tabby cat grooming her brood of kittens in front of the hearth flicked a noncommittal ear at him, busy holding down her biggest offspring despite his vehement protestations at being kept from his dinner.

Deciding to let his secretary correct it in the final signature draft, he put the paper down and took his pen from the inkwell. The sentry had reported the requested supply train had arrived from Osgiliath, and the bridge was already being floated out to them to allow their crossing to the island. This missive and his other reports must be ready to go back with the empty wagons.

"Our house of healing in particular must be improved and expanded to reflect the needs of a civilian population in distress," he said slowly, saying each word as he wrote it. He wondered if adding the pressing need for infant diapers he suddenly found himself laboring under would make his point, or merely reduce his superiors to snickers.

It did sound funny, until you had to face the consequences of too many bare bottoms and their ruthless mothers. There wasn't a Man in the garrison who had more than the under-shirt on his back, and most didn't have those anymore.

"Sir!"

The breathless voice of his orderly made him put the pen back in its holder.

"Sir! The supply train, Sir!"

His stomach churned, beyond any assistance of the tea, but he gave his young orderly a smile. "Problems, Durion?" he asked mildly.

The question seemed to flummox the lad, and he stopped just inside the doorway to his office, his mouth flapping open and shut without imparting any useful information at all.

"Durion," he sighed. "Unless it's the nine riders doing a waltz under the window or a battalion of orcs hiding in the flour barrels, it can't be that bad. Spit it out, Lad."

"The Princess," Durion gasped.

His stomach tightened a little more, his smile disappearing. "She didn't send the supplies I asked for?"

"She's here!" Durion blurted out.

"What?"

"She's here! On her way – here! Here! Now! Right now!"

Blinking, he considered his options. His garrison was a shambles, buried under drying laundry and baby-shit, certainly in no condition for a surprise inspection. On the other hand, his case might be easier to make in person, and Women, even royal ones, were easily moved by the plight of bare bottoms and bewildered soldiers.

"You're certain?" he asked, buying himself some time.

"Yes! I'm from the City, I've seen her! It's her!"

"Right. Calm down, Durion, call up the Honor Guard, and go find my dress tunic and cape."

"But she's here!" Durion cried.

"I heard you the first – " he began, but stopped as he heard the tread of a riding boot on the stone steps leading up to his office. His stomach gave up any semblance of normalcy and he choked down a burp, standing up just as his doorway was filled by a statuesque Woman wearing a hauberk of Mithril rings, a helm tucked under one arm. The dark blue tabard she wore over her armor bore the royal arms of Osgiliath. He found he had to look up, a little, into grey eyes in a fine-featured, stern face.

"Commander Lindur?" she asked, the sternness of her expression carrying over into her low-timbered voice.

"Your Grace," he managed to say, bowing low over his desk, barely avoiding knocking his tea all over his paperwork. Feeling a fool, he corralled the rattling cup and stood to attention.

A smile eased her features. "May I come in?"

"Of course," he answered, coming around from behind the desk, surrendering the authority of its position to meet her in the middle of the room.

"A pleasure, Commander," she said, extending her hand. Feeling like an ass, he decided to shake it, rather than make himself a bigger ass by trying to kiss it like the courtier he had never been. To his relief, she shook it firmly in return before letting go.

"My apologies, Commander, but when I received your request for supplies it occurred to me I might be sending you the merest bandage for a growing problem. If these raids continue, Cair Andros will be where Our displaced people will come. We are here to make sure you are not overwhelmed by this new duty, to determine what you will need to succor the refugees as well as maintain your mission of guard."

For just a moment, he considered rolling over and going back to sleep, as he plainly had to be dreaming. Then he reminded himself his dreams were never this good, not when he was actually wearing all his clothes, however stained and patched they might be.

"You are more than welcome," he managed to force out, bowing again.

"Excellent," she said, with an odd gleam in her eyes. "Shall we begin with your house of healing?"

"As you wish," he answered. "Ah, when would your Grace like to start?"

"Now."

"Of course," he answered with another bow. As he raised his head, his abused stomach betrayed him in its relief, growling like an unhappy dog. He felt his neck grow hot under his collar as he stood looking at her like an idiot. She raised one regal eyebrow at him, her gaze sweeping the room, taking in the pallet he had slept in laid by his small hearth, his quarters long since given over to some family or other, the tea cup on the desk, the hard bread on the plate next to his unfinished letter.

"But let us have breakfast first, Commander," she amended.

"Such as it is," he sighed. "I thank you, Your Grace."

Turning to Durion, she gave the lad another smile. "With your Commander's permission, please tell the Lady Elena to join Commander Lindur and I with breakfast."

Durion shot him a wide-eyed look and he waved the lad on his way.

"Would you care to sit down?" he asked, kicking himself mentally for the awkward stiffness of it.

"In a moment," she said, waving him to sit back in his place behind the desk as she headed to the hearth to investigate the mewling kittens falling stiff-legged over one another. _Naneth's_ contented purring rose another notch in response to the royal scratch behind her ears as the Princess knelt down on one knee beside her.

"So, Commander, what do you need from me to make your life easier?" Her Grace asked.

He weighed his options, buying time by walking behind his desk and sitting down. Finally, he opted for painful honesty.

"Diapers, Your Grace," he sighed. "Diapers and the soap to wash them with."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Boromir looked to the Northwest, not liking what he saw there. Although it was approaching evening, the horizon shouldn't be so dark, so angrily grey. His boyhood days spent learning to sail with his mother and uncle on the Belfalas had taught him to be wary of that kind of dirty sky.

The creak of the deck brought his attention back to the boat, to where Damrod was making his way toward him, a pouch of rations tucked in his belt and a jug of water in his hand.

"Theodred says we need to eat," Boromir guessed. "Eowyn is starting to rub off on him."

Damrod managed a smile, handing over the water bottle before kneeling down to check on Faramir.

"He's sleeping, a little," Boromir said. "His pupils are even, so I thought it would do less harm than constant puking."

"Mmm," Damrod answered, making his own examination, testing to make sure the binds restraining his Captain were not endangering his circulation.

Faramir stirred under the touch, and Boromir felt an unfamiliar sense of being on the outside looking in as he watched his brother settle again at a word from Damrod. He shoved the feeling away, pulling up the gratitude he held for the Man looking at Faramir with all the affection a father might show.

With a mindful hand on the tiller, he took a swig of the flat water, finding it refreshing all the same. He'd forgotten how dry the wind and the water could make you. The contents of his own canteen had long since gone to Faramir, for reluctant sips and more welcome rinsing.

"How are they?" he asked, reluctantly.

Damrod shrugged. "Garad's fever grows, but it's still manageable. He needs a surgeon, there's something in that wound I just can't find."

"And Bear?"

Damrod shrugged again.

"He needs a miracle," the Ranger admitted, suddenly looking far older than Boromir had ever seen him. "It's a miracle he's made it this far. It's Beren's own luck either of them are alive. They should both be dead, with your brother's arrows in them."

Boromir had to take another sip of the water to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth, however much his clenched stomach didn't care to receive it.

"What happened?"

"You saw the bunker."

"From a distance," he sighed. "I should have – "

"Done what?" Damrod interrupted. "You had no knowledge of the terrain, nor did we lack for the warriors or the will to do what was necessary. You were where you were most needed."

'Our father would not think so,' Boromir thought, but kept the words to himself.

"How was Garad hurt?"

"They'd honey-combed that hill with bear pits, impossible to see. Even in the bright daylight, if I'd not had a guide, I wouldn't have made it to the top alive."

"Beregond was with Garad?" That they had been taken together had puzzled him, as the Square had fallen into a natural balance of Garad and Faramir and Damrod and Beregond as the scouting pairs.

"There was standing water near the prisoners. Faramir didn't want Garad to get his feet wet."

"Why not?" Boromir asked sharply.

"He bullied your warning out of Garad."

"Damn it," Boromir swore softly, lightly smacking his fist atop the tiller's handle. "I didn't mean for him to second guess himself…."

Damrod snorted with laughter. "Not my Captain, Oh My Captain-General!"

Boromir gave him a half-hearted smile, and silence came between them. Damrod shared out the rations, and they passed the water back and forth, forcing down the dried meat and the hard waybread.

"Is there any hope for Bear?" Boromir finally asked.

"If I can keep his meridians stable, keep him from sinking into the wound coldness, if we can get him to a true Meridian Healer quickly, he might," Damrod answered, running a hand through his greying hair. "But if he does live, he won't take his place in the Square again. He might wield a pike or a shortsword in the shield wall, but his days of pulling a bow are over, between those burns and the damage done to his shoulders when we pulled him to safety."

For the first time in his life, Boromir understood what it was to be seasick.

"We'll need to keep an eye on Garad," Damrod continued. "They were captured together, and they used Bear against him. He's the one who rescued him, though how he stayed conscious enough with that leg to do it, I'll never know."

Boromir nodded. It went without saying they'd need to keep an eye on Faramir, the Man who had ordered Garad and Beregond up the hill.

"Still…" Damrod said, rising to his feet without his usual pantomime of creaking knees. "They are alive, and so is this wind. That coming storm may lend us more speed than we could have hoped for, if it doesn't tear the boat apart against the strength of the current…."

"We'll furl that sail when we come to it," Boromir told him.

"The Anduin has always been our friend," Damrod reminded him solemnly. "She will carry us well."

"It's a river," Boromir said. "Wind, current, and tide, nothing more, for all they may overcome a Man."

Sighing, Damrod shook his head. "Forgive his youth," he told the Anduin, dropping the last bite of his bread over the side.

Laughing, Boromir did the same with his last shred of the jerky. "Forgive his superstitious antiquity!"

Still shaking his head at Boromir's folly, Damrod checked Faramir's head wound one more time before returning to his watch over Garad and Beregond.

SCENE BREAK

"Mir?" Boromir called, certain he had heard his brother say something.

Faramir groaned, but quietly, without giving any indication of waking, as he always had before.

"Damn it," Boromir muttered. He gave a piercing whistle, one that brought Theodred quickly to his side.

"Hold the tiller," he ordered. "With both hands!"

Theodred gave him a filthy look, made all the more impressive by his matching black eyes, but he obeyed.

"Hold it there," Boromir said, before turning his attention to Faramir.

Taking off his right glove, Boromir held the back of his hand to Faramir's cheek and forehead, then lifted his eyelids. There was no marked change in him, no fever, no tell-tale difference in his pupils. He was warm, his breathing steady, if shallow, but his heart labored under Boromir's hand harder than it should, the pulse in his throat jumping apace.

"What's wrong?" Theodred asked.

"Nothing," Boromir answered. Scrubbing his face with his bare hand, he ran his stiff fingers through his hair before pulling his glove back on. "A healer's trance, perhaps, or just pure exhaustion."

"I'll hold her a while," Theodred offered. "Take some rest."

"The storm will be on us too quickly. Mind the sail, and keep your head down."

Theodred surrendered the tiller carefully, leaving Boromir with an encouraging pat on the shoulder and Faramir with a touch to his swaddled feet.

When Theodred was out of hearing, his sight blocked by the sail, Boromir scowled at Faramir.

"You bloody well better not be doing what I think you're doing," he growled. "If you are, so help me, I'll wring your fucking neck!"


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Damrod came back to check on Faramir not long after Theodred had returned to his post at the square sail.

"We couldn't ask for better weather," Damrod pointed out, using the ropes holding Faramir's hammock secure to help his balance. "A little rough and damned fast, but…."

Boromir, busy with tiller, nodded. "It's getting us down river apace."

"We're making better speed than we have a right to expect," Damrod agreed. "The Great River and The West Wind ever aid Gondor." He paused, adding softly, "And never has she needed them more than tonight."

"They're worse?" Boromir guessed.

Damrod avoided his sharply concerned gaze. "Bear, yes. Very bad. And Garad's fever still climbs." He smacked his fist against his thigh in frustration. "They need Her Grace and they need her now."

"Damn!" Boromir cursed, fighting the tiller as it leapt beneath his gloved hands.

"Wind's veering," Damrod said, peering at the cloud-heavy sky. "There."

"I see it. Just what we need," Boromir scowled.

Ahead and to their right, on the far eastern horizon beyond the right bank of the Anduin, lightning forked and danced, highlighting the jagged mountains of Mordor.

"The East wind," Boromir frowned, recognizing the malevolence in it. "It will try to stop us."

"This is a Swan Boat," Damrod reminded him, patting the tiller. "She will prevail."

"I hope so." Boromir returned all his concentration to the tiller, then, aware Damrod had again turned to Faramir, asked, "What do you think?"

Damrod turned, looking up at him from where he crouched, one hand on Faramir's brow. "Strange..."

Boromir swallowed hard then admitted. "I think he's trying to hold Bear."

Damrod's eyes widened in horror and his jaw dropped. "But… he's concussed! You can't journey the Borderlands when you're concussed!"

Boromir said nothing, letting Damrod remember on his own it would not be the first time Faramir had tried such foolishness.

"Fucking Shadow Healers…." Damrod muttered. "I'll try to get some broth down Faramir, give him some strength."

"Good luck," Boromir murmured unhappily as the old Ranger headed back to the makeshift galley area. "You'll need it."

SCENE BREAK

An hour later they needed more than luck. It would take a miracle to keep them afloat as they sailed deeper and deeper into the two clashing storm fronts. The East and The West made war around them, threatening to tear the little ship apart. Above, below, to all sides, air, fire and water fought a mighty battle as if somehow Sauron knew the importance of the little boat's mission.

"Come on, come on!" Boromir muttered, urging his craft to continue the fight, to hold together.

Blinded by another lashing sheet of rain as the East wind once more gained dominance, Boromir swore, and tried to duck his head into an equally drenched shoulder to wipe his eyes. He had enough success to make out a blurred vision of the straining sail and shaking mast. The sail whipped around, then as the West somehow fought back, billowed back the other way, the whipping lines a deadly peril on the open deck for anyone who did not move fast enough.

Only Damrod dared the slippery deck. The only truly experienced sailor among them, he seemed to be everywhere, easing or hauling tighter on the lines as needed. He could no longer be spared to watch over the wounded, nor could Boromir keep as close an eye as he wanted on his brother. That made him angry, angry enough to curse the river that seemed now to be working with the East wind to keep them from the hope of Osgiliath.

"The sail!" Damrod yelled, staggering and lurching aft. Whatever else he said was whipped away by the howling wind. Lightning flared in a blinding burst and anything else he said was lost to a deafening, jolting crack of thunder that made the deck-boards jump beneath Boromir's feet.

The storm was right on top of them now.

Damrod dared grab at Boromir's arm, drawing his attention. The old Ranger pointed at the sail then jabbed a thumb downward, telling him he was going to furl it to the mast.

Stubbornly, Boromir shook his head no.

Damrod's lips moved in an unheard curse, and he jabbed his hand at the bank, indicating they should beach themselves.

"Osgiliath!" Boromir bellowed. He would not abandon Beregond and possibly Garad's only chance at life, not while there was still any chance to save them all. He refused to let Faramir down, short of death for them all.

Damrod jabbed an urgent finger at where Faramir lay, strapped to the swinging hammock. Faramir was tied into that hammock, and while he told himself he was a strong enough swimmer to cut him out and get them both safely to shore, that left four other Men to drown...

Damrod, eyes hard beneath the streaming rainwater, pointed again, forward, to where the white horse ran with desperate defiance on the straining sail. It was Rohan's symbol, not Gondor's, but the message was plain. Rohan was Gondor's vassal state, and both kingdoms were Boromir's responsibility. Theodred had placed his life in Boromir's hands, trusted his judgment to do what was best for all.

Boromir echoed Damrod's earlier curse, but with such vehemence that it could be heard above the roar of wind and the hiss and rattle of rain.

Damrod met his eyes, grim, sad, infuriatingly patient and trusting.

Boromir dared take his left hand from the tiller to hold up thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart. Then he pointed to the East, then the West. The message, was, he hoped, clear. He would wait a little while longer, give the West wind its opportunity to defeat Sauron's storm.

"Andros!" he ordered, making a chopping motion with the edge of his hand. The island fortress would block and break the East wind and it was not far off. They must try to make Osgiliath. It was the only chance that would serve them all.

The battle raged, wind and rain stinging and biting and cold, Boromir's arms aching with the strain of holding the trembling tiller steady. As the weakest sailor among them, Theodred yielded charge of the sail to Damrod, ducking into the fraying shelter to do what he could to protect Garad and Beregond.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Lightning arced and slammed, exploding all about them, standing for long blinding seconds as brilliant shimmering columns of fire above the water, so close that an outstretched arm could almost touch them.

The night no longer existed, driven back by a never-ending wall of fire. Mordor had no ballistas on the banks to fire at them, but they were under its attack nonetheless. Hail battered the decks, and Boromir hunkered down, trying to duck into non existent shelter. The hail stones were not large, but, driven with terrible force by the ferocious storm they bruised and lacerated exposed flesh. Boromir tasted his own blood as it ran over his lips, and wondered how well the little ship would weather such a beating.

With a terrifying roar, the West wind rallied, swooping low over the boat with such suction that Boromir clung to the tiller to avoid being taken from his feet. But the wind had won, the hailstorm driven back.

With a rending shriek the sail gave way, torn in half, the ends flapping. With the hail storm driven off, the rain at least momentarily gone, and the sail no longer blocking his view forward, Boromir caught a glimpse of the rocky fortress keep of Cair Andros, much closer than he had expected. The little Swan Ship had flown like an eagle through the clashing storms.

Could the ship survive? When should he abandon Garad and Beregond to save the rest? The memory of sitting with Garad, watching Faramir and Beregond flirting with the barmaids, came to Boromir. Pain lanced through his chest, tightening every sinew. Garad was the best friend he had beside Faramir. To turn into the relative safety of the fortress was to make him a cripple at best, a corpse, more likely. And there would be no hope for Beregond, if there was any left after the ordeal of the storm….

Without the sail, the boat's speed had dropped, but the West wind drove them from behind, and the outgoing current alone would give sufficient speed to deliver them to Osgiliath just after dawn. They only needed another three hours or so….

The boat was battered, but holding. It was safer, steadier, without the straining weight of the wet sail and the shaking of the mast to tear at its deck and keel. They could still make it, with a little luck, and a little help from the blasted river….

Damrod had seen the fortress, too. Having secured the dangerously whipping snapped lines, he came forward, as aware as his Captain-General this was the moment of decision. The east wind screamed and slammed into them with a rattling broadside that knocked Boromir from his feet, sprawling, the breath driven from his lungs and the tiller snatched from his aching cold hands. Damrod grabbed it, somehow secured it, saving them all being tipped into the raging river.

Boromir clambered back up, nodding his thanks, and reaching again for the tiller.

"Catch your breath!" Damrod shouted.

Boromir eyed him, uncertain despite the arms he had clenched to his gut.

"We make for the City!" he tried to order, hoping Damrod could read his lips for surely he couldn't hear his wheeze.

"I know," Damrod yelled, then unexpectedly he grinned. "We'll make it! She's a good ship!"

Tension drained from Boromir's stance, and he clapped the solid Ranger on the back, as much to steady himself as to thank him. "The fort will stop the East Wind."

Damrod nodded. "Only a little while. We run with the tide. See how the Prince fares."

Boromir nodded, turning toward the prow.

"Oh, fuck...!" he whispered.

Above and behind the looming Keep, some nightmare thing was forming in the sullen sky. It spun like a top, growing ever larger. The lull in their battle with the East wind was over.

"Try to get some sail up! Outrun it!" Boromir ordered, reclaiming the tiller.

Damrod was moving toward the prow, nodding agreement, even as he said, "We'll never make it!"

"We must!"

A great, ominous rumbling hiss arose behind him and Boromir turned his head toward the sound, not sure he wanted to know what Sauron was concocting in the river as well as the sky. This time, he could not even find voice to curse.

"Fuck!"

Damrod said it for him, the word ringing clearly in the sudden, eerie stillness descending on the boat. East and West wind died away, the first to feed the aerial whirlpool and the second refusing to bolster the surging tidal wave racing down on them from behind. Sauron would see them dead, taken up in the icy vortex forming over the island and cast down on its rocky shores in a crimson shower of splintered wood and their torn, dismembered bodies.

If the tidal wave didn't drown them first….

Boromir's instinct was to go to Faramir, to protect him as best he could. Instead, he clung to the tiller, hoping against hope to aid the boat, to will it to outrun their deaths.

The spinning horror to the East could not outpace the wave, but it did suck the river up into it downstream and whip it in a frenzy of white water. It hissed and snarled and leapt, crashing down into the boat.

Boromir clung on, bracing against its power. It washed over him, was gone, but left the boat half-swamped, low in the river, a perfect target for the oncoming tidal wave.

Cursing raggedly, struggling with the overburdened tiller, Boromir craned to look back, and found he could not take his eyes from the mountain of water. It sped toward them, making the river rise above them in a rolling wall of green-black water edged with lacy white. It towered higher and higher, blotting the sky. Then it curved, impossibly changing direction to come at them from the side.

"Shit!" Boromir cried. Grunting and straining, he fought to bring the tiller about, the full weight of water and the swamped boat against him. He must align it with this new attack before they could be breeched.

Slowly, slowly, the dying boat obeyed. With the prow pointed East, Boromir could see the rock-walled mouth of the breakwater of Cair Andros. By some miracle the boat was aimed not at the jumbled boulders that defended its banks, but rather at the small gap that was the mouth of the tiny sheltered harbour. Lantern light gleamed a watery gold from the tower heights and from the windows of the squat dark shadows of the barracks walls beneath.

Then the wave hit.

The boat was lifted as if a toy and white spray roared about them. It carried them forward, toward the open portcullis. Boromir did not question why it was so, but rather thanked the Valar they would not be smashed against its spiked iron bars.

He thought for a moment they would make it inside the sheltering arms of the closed harbour, if he could just guide them to safe landing...

Then the Eastern sky tore down on them, the vortex grabbing and threatening to lift them up and out of the wave. The air was sucked from Boromir's lungs in the shock of the icy cold of its howling rage. Somehow, the river surged, and the rock walls of Cair Andros were about them, blocking the wind.

The boat flew onward, carried by the river and by the warm western wind that had leapt to their aid, unseen and unheard until it defeated the chaos of the icy Eastern whirlpool.

Boromir felt the shriek of the keel grinding into the quay ramp. All he could hear was the roaring crash of the wave as it broke against the seawall, drenching the boat and its occupants one last time.

The broken tiller was useless now, smashed on the ramp, but Boromir still held it, his fingers white and numb in a death-grip on the handle. Beregond would die, if he wasn't dead already, and Garad would probably lose his leg to a field surgeon's saw….

The river had won, damn it!

'Let go,' he told himself, but he didn't. He just sat, panting, staring at Faramir, mesmerized by the faint rise and fall of his brother's chest under the sodden wool blanket, reliving the moment he had seen the white-capped wave surging toward them against all the laws of nature. Faramir should have woken….

He dimly heard Men shouting, his ears still ringing with the storm despite the quiet inside the protecting walls. The garrison was turning out, coming to help them. How long had he been sitting here on his ass, like a useless fool?

With a grunt, he marshaled his shaking legs as best he could, using his knees to smack up against his frozen arms, loosening his grip. Growling with the effort, he pulled his hands free, willing his fingers to bend despite the agony of it.

Every fibre of his body seemed to shudder, as if he was about to fly to bits, but the need of the moment kept his knees under him. Drawing his dirk was beyond him, so he simply picked Faramir up, hammock and all, pulling the ropes from the splintered timbers of the hull in one last effort of brute strength.

Blinking his blurring vision into focus, he saw Theodred throwing the remains of the mid-ship shelter overboard into the lapping waters, working to get to him. Garad and Beregond were already off the ship, carried up the ramp to the healers. He must get Faramir to them….

Theodred had the path clear, was shouting to him to come forward. The wreck of the tender was too precariously balanced for Theodred to draw any closer, Boromir realized. Gritting his teeth, he waded forward, his water-filled boots growing heavier with each step.

"Come on!" Theodred yelled, beckoning him on, giving him a goal to fight toward. "A little farther, Mir!"

He took another step, Faramir as heavy as granite in his aching arms, his own legs dragging him down like anchors. He had to reach Theodred. Vaguely, he realized the Men crowding down the ramp had organized themselves, were stretching in a line behind Thee, a living rope securing him despite the angle.

Gasping, he saw Theodred take a step toward him. One less step for him to take, one step closer to getting Faramir to safety….

Then Theodred was there, had Faramir, then they were both being pulled away from him, back up the ramp. He collapsed then, on his hands and knees, his head hanging down. Sparks swam in darkness, washed to gray, and then became the glistening stone of the wet ramp beneath him as he crawled up it.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

"C'mon, Lad," a deep, rough voice said in his ear, and then he was standing, still panting like a landed fish, his screaming arms stretched over the shoulders of two strangers. His head spun, the darkness pulling at him again, and he almost surrendered to it, but in the edge of his waking mind he heard Damrod laughing.

The note of hysteria in it brought him back to the world, and he blinked rapidly, desperately trying to adjust to the brightness of the lamp-lit interior of the quay's gate-hall. Garad and Faramir were on stretchers close by him, held by patient Men while healers worked over them. Theodred was on his knees to one side, puking up his share of the river water, held and helped by one of the guardsmen.

Still blinking, Boromir swung his head about, looking for Beregond. He was further in the hall, no doubt the first Man taken off the wreck. He was still lying on his face, his long arms hanging down, healers bending over him on either side of the litter. Damrod stood beside him in the grasp of two worried guardsmen, barking like a mad hyena.

"What is it?" he tried to ask, but the words came out wrong, garbled and honking. Damrod seemed to understand anyway, thrusting a shaking finger at the wall behind Beregond. Boromir stared at it, trying to fathom its significance, and then the wall turned into Liel.

"Liel?" he said, or thought he did.

Confusion swept through him, seeming to lift his head off his shoulders. It wasn't possible, she was in Osgiliath, and they hadn't made it to Osgiliath, the river had sent the wave against them, sent them to Cair Andros….

Liel was frowning, barking out orders he almost understood through his floating ears. Then the Men who were holding him were joined by others who each took one of his legs, and the wall that had become Liel turned into the barrel-vaulted ceiling.

"Sorry…" he muttered in apology to the river. He imagined he heard its exasperated reply in the smack of a wave against the quay before he finally passed out.

SCENE BREAK

He had to wake up. He knew he had to wake up, but he couldn't remember why….

Some foul smell choked him, making him cough. He tried to shove it away, but it was persistent, sharp, gagging….

His eyes opened, just to find the reeking thing and push it away from him.

"Gerroff!" he gasped, trying to grab the wrist holding the burnt antler under his nose. His hand refused to close on the wrist, nor could he compel his arm to do more than flop a few inches.

"Boromir!"

Liel's voice was as sharp as a slap, and it snapped him fully awake.

"Faramir!" he cried, though he barely made a sound. He needed to get up, damn it! He needed to find Faramir. He struggled to move, wishing he could feel his feet...

"Boromir!"

He blinked, and Liel's frowning face swam into view. "…Faramir…" he groaned.

"Help him up," he heard her bark, and then he was sitting up, his face between her warm hands. It was amazing how her touch always suited him, cool when he was hot, warm when he was cold….

"Boromir!"

"Faramir," he gasped again.

"Right beside you," she answered, helping him turn his head to see. Faramir was lying next to him, bundled up in dry blankets, his eyes closed, his face troubled,

"He's gone after Bear," he told her, forcing the words out.

"I know," she said. "Listen to me, Boromir. He is holding Bear, now you must hold him. Do you understand?"

He didn't, not really, but he nodded anyway, reaching a groping hand for his brother. Someone put Faramir's hand in his, and he made his fingers close around it despite their stiffness.

"Just stay with him," she ordered. "Drink this."

Her hands left his face, replaced by the welcome rise of aromatic steam. Peppermint and honey, and beneath it the bitter smell of steeped Kingsfoil. He didn't want to drink it, his stomach souring at the idea, but he did as she wished, someone else holding the cup for him.

"Little sips," she said, her fingers combing back his hair and stroking down his neck and shoulders. He knew she was checking for injuries, but he didn't care. Between the tea and her touch, the numbness was leaving his body and the confusion was leaving his mind.

"What do I do?" he asked her.

"Stay with him, until he wakes. He will not leave you. Commander!"

She wasn't talking to him anymore; he had the sense to realize.

"I put them in your care, Commander," she said, looking up at someone behind him. Then she was gone, replaced in his sight by the greying beard and weather-beaten face of a Man it took him a moment or two to recall: Lindur, commander of the garrison at Cair Andros.

"Finish the tea, and then we'll get some broth down you," the old soldier said, pulling up the blankets that had slid down his torso when he'd been lifted.

"I'll be all right," Boromir replied. "Take care of my brother."

"We'll do that, Lad," Lindur agreed. "We'll do that."

SCENE BREAK

Boromir caught himself just on the edge of sleep, jerking his head up sharply. Blinking, he inhaled deeply through his nose, letting the breath out through his mouth. Shifting his grip on Faramir's hand to free one of his own, he scrubbed his face, forcing himself back to wakefulness.

"If you won't sleep, you need to eat something, Lad," Lindur told him. Boromir was dimly aware of the older Man patting his shoulder, then picking up the blanket that had fallen down his back, returning it to cloaking his shoulders.

"He's cold," Boromir said, returning to his double-handled clasp on Faramir's limp hand.

"You're cold," Lindur countered, indicating the cot waiting for Boromir across from Faramir. "You need to sleep, Lad!"

Boromir sighed, shaking his head. "Is there news?"

"None yet," the Commander replied. Boromir heard the thunking of wood being put into the hearth, the scrape of the poker over its bricks as Lindur stirred the coals to fire for greater heat.

"Go, see what you may learn," Boromir ordered.

"Will you eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

It was Lindur's turn to sigh. "I will go, if you will eat when I return."

"You're not my cradle nurse!" Boromir snapped.

"No, I'm not, but as we have no nurses to spare, the task falls to me, My Lord. We have wounded enough."

Biting back his temper, Boromir accepted the rebuke. "I will eat, when you give me your report," he agreed tersely.

With another sigh, Lindur left the room. Boromir didn't pretend to miss him, leaving the blanket behind him as he knelt down beside the low bed. Faramir was cold, damn it, beyond any bite of the weather or season or a dying fire. Something was wrong, in a way that made the hair on the back of his wrist stand up. He wanted Liel to be here, to look after Faramir, to tell him what was going on. The fact that she wasn't here yet told him why his brother was so damned cold.

Abruptly, with a rattling gasp of breath, Faramir's eyes flew open.

"Mir!" Boromir called, trying to bring focus into the staring blue eyes. He shook Faramir a little, finding him as limp as a rag.

"Faramir!" he barked, shaking him harder. "Wake up!

Faramir gasped again, every muscle suddenly tensing to steel. "No!" he cried, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Bear!"

It took all Boromir had to keep Faramir from catapulting from the bed. As it was, he had to grapple Faramir to him, holding his head down against a shoulder, his other arm around his waist, trapping him in his embrace.

"Faramir! Wake up!"

"…lost him…" Faramir muttered, the despair in his voice breaking Boromir's heart.

"It's all right," Boromir lied, holding Faramir to him as tightly as he could. "It's all right, I have you…."

"I lost him…."

"I have you," Boromir soothed, back to stroking the head cradled against his shoulder. There was no need to restrain Faramir now. He knew the fight for Beregond was over.

"I crossed the river…" Faramir fretted hoarsely, his eyes closed against pain and vertigo.

"I know."

"…told me not to…."

"Any other Man would have obeyed me…." Boromir's voice wavered, nearly broke, but he cleared his throat, somehow managing to Will it to steadiness. "That's why I had to send you."

"Not… your fault," Faramir told him. "Fortunes… of war…."

"I know," Boromir sighed, rubbing his chin against the side of Faramir's sweaty head. "No fault, no blame, just redress. I'll make it count, Mir, I promise you that. It will mean something."

Faramir tried to shake his head, catching his breath to hide the pain that exploded through him at the movement.

"Easy, easy," Boromir chanted, holding Faramir's head steady. "You hit your head."

"…how…?"

"You fell down." Reaching the arm that wasn't keeping Faramir's head still behind him to his abandoned chair, Boromir found the blanket and brought it forward, juggling it around Faramir. He knew it would do little to ease the kind of shivering troubling his brother, but it would protect his bruised body from the bite of the cold.

"…the tar…." Faramir muttered, swallowing hard.

"It's safe," Boromir said, trying to keep the sigh from his voice. How many more times would he have to explain this before Faramir returned to himself?

"…my Square?"

"Damrod and Garad are with – Liel," he answered, wincing at his verbal stumble that served to point out the absence of Beregond so baldly. "They will be all right. We have them, Faramir."

"Garad…."

"Just a broken leg, he will be all right."

"…want to see them…."

"After you rest."

"…fine…." Faramir protested. Boromir was prepared for his brother's attempt to prove how fine he was. It took painfully little effort to thwart him.

"After you rest," Boromir repeated firmly. "I promise, Faramir. If you will rest, when you wake, I will take you to see them." He would do it too, though Faramir would not appreciate being carried like a bride through the halls.

"…promise?"

"Promise."

Faramir gave up the struggle to free himself, sagging against Boromir. Loosening his grasp, Boromir went to rubbing Faramir's back, lightly, carefully through the blanket, like he was still five years old with a stomach ache from too many sugar sweets on May Day. After a few minutes, he felt the head on his shoulder nod and the muscles under his hand relax.

Moving more stiffly than he cared to acknowledge, he moved Faramir back to his bed, arranging him on his side, buttressed with many pillows to support his swollen limbs and keep his head and neck steady. He stirred a moment, but exhaustion of body and spirit dragged his mind down into sleep.

Still kneeling by the bed, Boromir buried his face in his hands, breathing deeply, trying to get a handle on his emotions. He hoped when Faramir woke, he would remember what had happened. He didn't want to see the hope die in his brother's eyes again, to have to tell him his Square had been shattered.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

A step in the hall brought his head up, no doubt Lindur with his damned food. Another bad bargain he'd struck. He seemed to be making a lot of them lately.

He used the floor to push himself to his feet, not wanting to jar Faramir. It wouldn't do for Lindur to find him on his knees, not if he didn't want to be spoon-fed whatever gruel the Commander's mother had thought best for sick little boys.

"Mir?" a voice called, one much more welcome to his ears than Lindur's gruffness. A moment later, Liel appeared in the doorway, seeming relieved to find it. Her gaze fell on him and she smiled at him in a way that gave his legs the strength to go to her.

She met him halfway to the door, raising her open arms high so he could sweep her to him. Her hands came around his neck as he bent his face to hide it against her throat. She smelled of roses and rosemary and cloves, and her sleeves were wet from the washing she had done before and after her work with the wounded.

He couldn't sort out the words she was murmuring in his ears, but he held fast to the kind gentleness of it, as he held the strength of her softness to him. Time disappeared, pain disappeared, everything but the safety and the comfort of this moment left him, melting away in the warmth she offered.

All too soon, time reasserted itself, using Lindur as its agent of disturbance. Damn the Man, he'd brought an entire pot of soup along with him, and a covered basket the size of a great-shield along with it.

Boromir raised his head from Liel's neck and her hands came to rest on his shoulders, but that was all that came between them as they turned their gazes to the Man.

"Her Grace has told you the news, then?" Lindur asked cheerfully, heading for the hearth.

"I know the news," Boromir said grimly. "Faramir told me."

"It was hard to get him to part from Beregond," Liel said. "But his labor was done, so I cut the energy between them. Bear's body needs to be whole with its spirit if he is to have any chance at healing."

"What?" Boromir asked, blinking down at her. "But Bear is – Faramir said he was lost…."

Liel smiled at him. "I can see how it would feel that way to him, but no, Bear is alive, for the moment, and we have a chance of keeping him that way, thanks to you and your brother."

The room began to tumble and Boromir clutched at Liel. He briefly wondered if he could keep his knees from buckling, and then he was staring up at the ceiling. He realized he was sitting in the chair, which had been moved closer to the fire.

"…told him he had to eat," Lindur was saying, more angry than defensive.

"There's no harm done," Liel said, and he opened his eyes at the touch of her hand on his forehead. "He'll eat now, and then he'll sleep. Move the other cot next to Faramir's. He will sleep if he is by his brother. Make sure to tie the legs together."

He took the hand from his forehead, pulling her down to sit across his lap.

"Bear's alive?" he demanded.

"Yes. I can't promise he'll stay that way, but he has a chance now."

He kissed her for the joy of the news. Then he kissed her for the joy of kissing her, until she put her head down on his shoulder with a tired sigh.

"I could sleep for a week," she murmured.

"I'll join you."

"Then neither of us would sleep," she chuckled, kissing his jaw. "I need to check _Faranin_."

He took another kiss for ransom before letting her stand up. He considered joining her, but the trembling of the muscles in his legs kept him in his seat. He had worried her needlessly once; he would not do so again.

Lindur nudged the chair, and Boromir looked up. The older Man held two mugs, one topped by a crown of white foam, the other steaming gently, presumably full of his damned soup. Boromir nodded at Liel, who was kneeling on the side of the bed opposite them, Faramir's face between her hands.

"There's plenty of broth and beer for Her Grace, when she's finished."

Conceding defeat, Boromir took the beer in his right hand and the soup in his left. Bitter experience had taught him to drink the beer slowly, though after the first sip all he wanted to do was drown in it. He distracted himself by watching Liel.

She'd pulled the covers off of Faramir and was frowning in concentration as she conducted her examination. If Faramir had been awake, he would have been purple with embarrassment. He was a little embarrassed himself, remembering the times he had been in the same position. Sometimes he had been hurt too badly to know anything more than his pain was being eased and other times….

Glancing away, he took another sip of beer to hide his unseemly smile. He found Lindur looking at him, with the expression of the other Men who had weighed the odds of their survival if they actually plucked up the courage to ask him if all the songs and stories about the wonders of taking a Meridian Healer as your lover were true.

Boromir schooled his features and raised a challenging eyebrow.

"Soup," Lindur countered with an eyebrow of his own.

The word made his mouth water, the smell of it suddenly beating at him. The beer had done its work, reminding his stomach of its hunger. The rich broth with its tiny morsels of green onions and savory chicken tasted like heaven, especially when washed down by mellow wheat beer.

"I'll see to that bed," Lindur said, drawing Boromir's attention away from the food. Liel had finished with Faramir, and by her smile, he knew she was satisfied with what she had found. With a bow, the veteran commander handed her the mug of soup he had poured her on his way out of the room.

"Good Man," Boromir said, putting his empty mugs on the floor and patting his thigh by way of invitation. She didn't refuse, letting him guide her body while she kept the mug from spilling.

"Mmm," she agreed, blowing on the soup to cool it. "I fear the quiet of his post has come to an end."

"How is Mir?"

"Weak, somewhat parched…. Better than I had expected to find him."

"If you hadn't been here, he wouldn't have let go," Boromir said quietly. "He would have followed Beregond into death."

"It's possible, but life has its own demands. He was not hurt badly enough to slip its rule completely. He would have returned… eventually."

'_When Bear died,'_ Boromir silently translated, resting his cheek against her crowning braids.

"Can you stay?" he asked aloud.

"Beregond isn't stable enough for me to leave him long."

"The others?"

"I have confidence in Elena's ability to make Garad mind. He will recover to return to his duties in Ithilien in a few months time. Damrod is exhausted, but sleep and food and the hope Faramir has won us will restore him quickly. Theodred will be on his feet tomorrow, black eyes notwithstanding."

Turning her head, she lifted her mouth to his. It was a farewell kiss, one he knew all too well, and they lingered over it as long as her duty would allow.

Then she was gone, with a command for him to sleep, and to feed Faramir when he woke.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

He couldn't breathe. He struggled for air, clawing into the ground beneath him to try and pull himself free of the terrible weight crushing his lungs. Thick, dry dirt pushed into his nose, forcing his mouth open in a desperate pant. It too filled with dirt, no matter how he tried to spit it out. He was dying, drowning in dirt though he could feel the clinging damp of fog, smell the stink of the green slime growing in slow moving water through the strangling dirt….

"Mir!"

Relief surged through him. Boromir was coming, would find him….

"Wake up!"

The pressure on his chest changed, constricting him, pinning his arms against his sides, holding him down into the dirt. He tried to cry out for Boromir, but the dirt choked him.

"Damn it, Mir! Wake up!"

He did, with a gasping, snorting start, his heart pounding through his chest, the pounding of it trying to tear his head off. Groaning, he rolled onto his side, trying to raise an arm to block the light stabbing into his eyes, but his arm wouldn't work. He screwed his eyelids shut and tried not to throw up.

"Mir?"

Boromir's voice rang in his ears, as if he stood in the caves of Henneth Annûn bellowing like a cow in heat. "Damn it, wake up and answer me!"

"Fuck off…" Faramir managed to gasp out, trying to will his spinning head to stillness, wishing he had been granted a sterner stomach.

He heard Boromir sigh, the exhaled breath warm on his back. The weight eased from around his chest, and he realized Boromir had been holding him, keeping him from throwing himself out of the bed.

"Hold still," Boromir ordered. "You've got a head wound."

Wound.

He had wounded Men. Wounded and dead….

"Mir?" Boromir's voice was quieter, worried. Faramir wished Boromir would disappear, wished he was alone, wished he had the spine to order his brother to go, to give up the child's comfort of his big brother's protective embrace.

"Are you all right?" Boromir asked.

"…Bear…."

The embrace became a hug. "It's all right," Boromir lied.

Faramir tried to find his voice, and failing that, tried to lift his arm to shield his eyes again. This time, Boromir let him, even helped him, seeming to understand that it weighed three times what it should, and that it hurt like hell.

"You didn't lose Bear, you brought him home," Boromir soothed. "Liel has him now; she will do everything that may be done to keep him with us."

His head throbbed harder as he struggled to make sense of what Boromir had just said, trying to remember what had happened. Images came to him, crashing into one another, flickering through his mind with the blurred speed of a hummingbird's wings: Garad and Beregond captured, the gagging smell of burning tar and burning flesh, the raiders on horseback pounding through the morning fog….

"…raiders…?"

"Dead, or prisoners."

"…can't remember…."

"I told you, you hit your head." Boromir sighed as he said it, and Faramir wondered how many times he had asked for this story.

"…alive…?"

"All of them, including the prisoners."

"…he's burned…." They both knew that was a death sentence, without a house of healing, and even then, when burned as badly as Beregond had been….

"Liel says he has a chance," Boromir said firmly. Faramir's heart leapt again, but this time, he didn't mind the pain. She wouldn't lie, not to Boromir, not about something like that….

He decided to accept the hope offered him, until he could get his feet under him and judge Bear's condition for himself.

"…how long…?"

"Three days, I think..." The uncertainty of the answer let Faramir hear the hoarseness in Boromir's voice, the exhaustion that punctuated the words with a yawn.

"…what time is it…?"

"Middle of the fucking night," Boromir replied, with another yawn.

"…not… in this bed…."

Boromir laughed, and though it hurt Faramir's head, it eased other pain.

"Damn right," his brother agreed. "Can you eat?"

Faramir's stomach poked into his throat, and he gagged it down.

"Later, then," Boromir told him. "Do you need…?"

"…no…." Not until his bladder screamed louder than his head.

"Then go to sleep."

Faramir thought it unlikely, though he knew he could manage a semblance of it, separating his mind from the pain of his body. He began to try the trance, but his body fought back savagely. He gritted his teeth against the waves of pain beating at him.

"Go to sleep," he heard Boromir mutter drowsily, and felt a touch on his head that should have sent him into puking agony, but somehow didn't. "I have you."

Within moments, so did the reprieve of sleep.

Faramir woke up just before his dream of pissing on top of the meeting table in the middle of one of his father's interminable councils became a reality. And instinctive clenching of appropriate muscles gave him enough time to take the crisis in hand, leaving him breathless from the pain throbbing between his bladder and kidneys and his skull.

"Need a hand?" he heard Damrod whisper.

Forcing one eye open, Faramir discovered his Sergeant kneeling beside the bed, looking both sympathetic and amused.

"Got one…" he grated out, barely able to make himself heard. He felt like he'd been gargling broken glass and was hard pressed to resist the overwhelming urge to give into a coughing fit that would have undone all his efforts at self-control.

He heard a familiar muttering behind him, and the sharpness of a familiar elbow adding itself to the pressure in his lower back. He froze, holding his breath, willing himself to stillness and his brother back to deeper sleep. His circumstances were embarrassing enough without Boromir waking up and treating him like he was four again, especially not in front of his grinning Sergeant.

"Hold that thought," Damrod advised, scuttling away out of Faramir's line of sight. Boromir relaxed, sighing back into an almost-snoring breathing pattern indicative of extreme exhaustion.

Trying to distract himself, Faramir tried to recall the events that had led him to lying naked in some strange room clutching his manhood, trying not to wake his over-protective brother. Some answers came all too quickly, crowding into his mind, turning his stomach sick as he remembered Bear and Garad, and the terrible things that had been done to them while he had stood by uselessly.

"Here we go," Damrod whispered, returning with an empty and blessedly generous chamber pot. He sat it down on the floor, then lifted Faramir to a sitting position before helping him swing his legs over the side of the bed.

Damrod didn't ask him if he could manage on his own, holding the pot high and close so as not to risk the failure of his Captain's shaking aim.

"How are they?" Faramir asked, after a long, relieved sigh.

"Garad is better, and Bear is alive," Damrod answered.

"Where…?"

"Not far."

"Good." Pain gripped Faramir and he closed his eyes in wincing grimace as he finished.

"Not much blood," Damrod observed. "Her Grace thought you'd bruised yourself, but not much more damage."

Faramir nodded minutely, sighing again. What the hell had he done to himself? Try as he might, he couldn't remember what had happened after he'd heard the alarm about the raider's reinforcements. Damrod left before Faramir could find the breath to ask him, taking the sloshing pot with him.

Faramir tried to turn to look behind him at Boromir, giving the idea up quickly as his head, neck, shoulders and all of his back screamed like a rusty hinge. Gasping, he caught and held his breath, doing his best not to trigger Boromir's instinct for knowing when Faramir was not well.

"This will help," Damrod said quietly, letting his feet grow heavy as he came back to him. This time he held a bowl in one hand and a pitcher in the other, a towel and what Faramir hoped was a robe over either shoulder.

The simple task of washing his hands with the warm, wet and soapy cloths in the basin and then holding them steady over it for Damrod to rinse with the cooler water from the pitcher left him panting with the effort.

"What the fuck did I do?" Faramir muttered, giving up on trying to keep his hands from trembling as Damrod dried them off. His Sergeant didn't offer him the option of washing anything else, having at him with the practiced efficiency of a seasoned field healer.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Damrod asked quietly.

"The bolt-hole… The villagers raising the alarm. The Raiders… re-enforcements…. Horses…." Faramir struggled to remember more. "Theodred? I think I saw Theodred…."

"You did," Damrod told him, distracting Faramir from his brisk examination. "And the Prince of Rohan is here, but I don't think it's his horses you're remembering. Those raiders belonged to the Corsairs of Umbar, and the horses you remember were bringing the new rotation into their hideout."

A bad feeling shivered its way down Faramir's spine. "Why would I remember those horses in particular?"

"Because you used yourself as bait to tempt them over a grass-hidden ravine to their deaths."

"I did?"

"You did. Most effective. Very few stragglers left for the rest of us."

"It feels like they ran over me…."

"They didn't run over you," Damrod answered. "They fell on top of you. More or less."

"More or less?"

"All right, less rather than more. There was a ledge below the lip of the ravine, and you managed to get yourself on it. The charge of the horses brought the leading edge down on top of you, which is why you feel like flattened pan-bread today.

Faramir's bad feeling grew worse. "When did Boromir arrive?"

"He saw you jump, thought you'd fallen. There's a couple dozen Riders of Rohan who'd like to have a word with you, by the way."

Faramir swallowed hard. "What did he do?"

"Took exception to them trying to keep him from committing suicide by jumping after you, Oh My Captain."

"Shit," Faramir swore, abandoning his attempt to run his hand through his hair before it had truly begun. "He's enough of a mother-hen normally; he won't let me out of his sight for months after this!" Another, grimmer thought occurred to him. "What did he do to the Rohirrim?"

"Only a few broken bones, a busted nose or two, some bruised pride," Damrod answered. "I'd say we got lucky all around this time."

"Except for Beregond."

"He may turn out to be the luckiest of us all," Damrod countered, sitting back on his heels and washing his own hands.

"I want to see him. I want to see them both."


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

A/N - Again, many thanks to the reviewers who have rewarded us for our work with their comments that show us we conveyed the feeling the characters are experiencing accurately from them to you! Eleanor in particular worked hard on the details to make this a truly 'step-into-their-shoes' world! (You're gonna love the kittens! Wait for it, truly, they are a brilliant idea for stage prop to show more interplay between the brothers, coming up very soon) - Carolyn

"I've brought your chariot, Oh My Captain." Moving the bowl and pitcher out of the way, Damrod rose and headed for the doorway. Faramir forced his torso to turn, to be able to see his Sergeant bringing a two-wheeled invalid chair into the room. Gritting his teeth against desire to refuse it, he nodded stiff thanks instead. Pride would only get him carried there like a child, more than likely by his grumbling brother.

Damrod helped him to his feet, held him steady and got him into the short-sleeved, knee-length robe that tied at the hip to protect the modesty of the wounded while allowing a healer necessary access. He was shaking like a leaf in a high wind by the time he was sitting in the chair, trying to control his breathing and hoping against hope he hadn't woken Boromir. His brother snored gently on, and the bad feeling took another run down Faramir's spine.

"Is he all right?" he asked Damrod.

"He's exhausted. We liberated a captured tender out of Dol Amroth, and he manned the tiller all the way here." Damrod paused a moment, then added, "There were storms along the way."

Faramir blinked, wondering if one of those horses had kicked him in the head to make him so oblivious to the obvious strangeness of his greater surroundings. "Where are we?"

"Cair Andros."

Faramir frowned at the back of Boromir's head as Damrod folded a blanket over his knees, then knelt to place his Captain's bare feet on the platform provided for their support, arranging the hem of the blanket loosely over them. Faramir knew his Sergeant did it less to coddle him than to keep him from trying to direct the course of the chair himself.

"He will worry if he wakes and I'm not here," Faramir murmured.

"I think he will know where you've gone," Damrod pointed out gently, standing up and moving to the back of the chair.

Faramir said nothing, his right fist clenching despite the pain. "Did he truly try to take his life?"

Damrod put his hands on Faramir's shoulders, letting them rest there softly.

"He knew you were alive. Despite everything his eyes told him, he knew you were alive. That's why he fought so hard to reach you. He would not throw his life away."

"He will worry if I am not here," Faramir repeated. "I will wait here until he wakes. Go; sit with them until we join you."

"No need," a new voice said from the doorway and Faramir once again hurt himself as he tried to turn his head to see Liel.

He kept his groan to himself, but couldn't hide his expression of pain. Damrod's hands brought careful relief to his neck, and a few moments later, Liel's cool hands were on his head.

"Gently," she chided softly, and he felt her kiss the top of his head, despite how dirty his hair must be. Her fingers found the paths of pain pulsing through his head and his neck, applying fierce, pinpoint pressure in certain spots, Damrod working with her to help put him back together.

"Let us have cold and then warmth alternating on his back and neck," Liel ordered. "And a massage with oil of comfrey and thyme as well, I think."

"Yes, Your Grace," Damrod replied, and Faramir could almost see his Sergeant's neat little bow.

The fingers of steel melted into the softness of a hug that always made Faramir remember his mother. It had taken him long to appreciate it for the gift it was, to accept it without a sense of duplicity, though he had never quite understood who he felt he was deceiving.

"I must rest now," she told him. "I will tell him where you are. It's where he would expect you to be."

That was true, Faramir knew. Boromir understood what a Captain owed his Men, what they meant to him.

"You will?" he asked, his voice muffled against her arm.

"I will. Now go, your injuries should have been tended to long since, but we are few here yet, and others had greater need."

"Yes, _Osthiril_," he said, letting her go a fraction before she released him.

"I will be here when he wakes," she promised.

"Thank you," Faramir told her, taking a last look at Boromir before gesturing for Damrod to get them underway.

SCENE BREAK

Sighing, Boromir rolled over onto his back, stretching his arms across the double width of the tied together beds. Fuck, he was sore.

"I'm not that hennish, am I?" he asked drowsily, hearing Liel's step close by.

His answer was a low laugh, and the welcome addition of her weight to the edge of his side of the cots.

"I think that was a case of the kettle calling the pot black," she told him, her body stretching out along his.

"You're on the wrong side of the sheets," he told her, opening his eyes and putting his arms around her as she settled across his torso. He re-arranged her a little, to ease his aching chest. "Is Faramir all right?"

Feeling his discomfort, she shifted so she lay on her side with her head on his shoulder one arm and leg across his body, her cheek resting where she could hear his heart beat.

"He is mending well. You'll not get away with that possum trick if you should try it tomorrow!"

He tightened his arms around her, wriggling a bit to bring her a little higher so he could rub his chin across her crown of braids. They were still pinned up, a sure sign she hadn't stopped working since he had last seen her.

"How are they?" he asked.

"Garad must be watched closely. His fever rises and falls, as it should, but he came very close to dying. I believe he will stay with us."

"And Beregond?" he prompted when she didn't continue.

"I don't know," she answered, after a moment. "All my experience tells me he should be dead, but he lives. It's probable we will lose him, but it's possible he may yet outlive us all. Elena is watching over them."

"Can I see them?" he asked, screwing his eyelids together to press the stinging from them.

She didn't answer, and he sighed. "I must give Faramir his time with them first."

"I'm afraid you must, My Own."

"Fucking Rangers," he muttered. "They will steal all our boys from us."

She turned her face into him and he felt her smile. "We must find us a girl," she murmured against his skin.

"She'll marry one," he sighed.

"Most likely," she agreed, sighing herself. They lay together for a few minutes, and sleep nearly took Boromir again, but he shook himself awake.

"More refugees are coming," he told her. "Along with Prince Eomer and half his Eored."

"I know. Commander Lindur and Theodred are preparing for them now. I've already sent the last ones through to Osgiliath."

"Is there anything left for me to do besides polish my boots in a quiet corner?"

"I need your help," she yawned.

"You do?" he asked, genuinely surprised. "With what?"

"My bath," she replied, moving her hand up and using her thumb to caress his nipple.

Chuckling, he covered her hand with his own, barely able to give it a squeeze. He could still feel the tiller in his aching palms, and wondered if he was ever going to be able to straighten his fingers without pain again.

"Not sure I'm able," he admitted, running his other hand up and down her side nonetheless.

"I could sleep for a week," she told him. "But you've had short shrift for your hurts, and I need to wash the stress of healing away, before it takes hold in my weariness. And we both should eat."

"Mmm," Boromir said, his eyes closing despite his resolve to keep them open.

"Perhaps a nap first," she suggested, the words contorted through another yawn.

"Mmmmm," he agreed. Together, by dint of practice, they managed to get her under the covers without separating, shifting their embrace so they both lay on their sides, she tucked against him, her cold toes warming against his legs. They were bare, her usual practice when healing being to leave her shoes and socks off, despite all the times Boromir had pointed out how easily she could drop a scalpel or scalding water.

He didn't have the heart to scold her for it, still too grateful for the miracle of her presence to do more than move his protesting legs to bring more warmth to her. She murmured something, settling her marvelous bottom more comfortably against him as the hand of the arm draped over her found its customary resting place, cupped around a full breast, a congenial arrangement to his bruised hands in the absence of her boned corset. He had a momentary regret she was clothed, but it was probably just as well.

"Just an hour…" she muttered drowsily.

He kissed the edge of her ear by way of answer, following her into sleep.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

It seemed a long way from the quiet room Faramir had shared with Boromir to the healing ward, though he knew it wasn't. It astonished him how much effort just sitting was taking, and he sighed with impatience.

The smell of the recovery room came to him before he could see its doorway, the all too familiar odor of smoldering Rosemary and Kingsfoil penetrating into the rest of the ward.

He wondered if the herb still grew in the ancient gardens here, or if Liel had brought it with her. She was one of the few who still held by its 'mythical properties' and used it regularly. The reigning healers of Minas Tirith considered it nothing more than a mild tonic at best, but they took their cue as well as their authority from Denethor and his interest if not down-right preference was for the captured knowledge of the Haradrim and Easterlings. The Shadow healers and Meridian surgeons were no longer trained in the great houses of Minas Tirith, the knowledge of Numenor either forgotten or hoarded by Men like his father, who wished to protect the power such knowledge gave them.

"They're in here," Damrod told him, though he must have known Faramir had realized it already. He was probably checking to see if Faramir was still awake, with his usual face-saving kindness.

The chair fit easily through the wide door into the ward, built to accommodate a level of use it hadn't known in centuries. There were no longer enough people in Gondor to man all the garrisons and principalities, even though her territories had shrunk to half what She had been in her Glory. Cair Andros had been relegated to an after-thought by Minas Tirith, its needs looked to by the dwindling resources of besieged Osgiliath.

"You look like hell," Elena greeted them as Damrod wheeled Faramir into the recovery room. She was standing between the tall ward beds holding Garad and Beregond.

"How are they?" Faramir asked, refusing to take the bait. He wasn't in the mood for verbal sparring.

"Garad's last fever spike just broke," she answered. "Beregond is still with us. Look after them for a little while, will you? I need to speak to the garrison healer."

Faramir knew she didn't, of course. He reached to take her hand as she passed by him on her way to the door, wincing as his muscles reminded him they weren't cooperating with him today. She took it, then turned his wrist to lay her fingertips on it and count his pulse.

"You should be in bed yourself," she said, frowning at him.

"Her Grace has ordered heat and cold for his back, as well as oil of comfrey and thyme," Damrod told her, as if that was Faramir's reason for coming.

"I'll see to it," she said, accepting the stretched truth. "But it's bed for both of you when I get back. Neither of you should be up and about yet." She gave them both a look to remind them they were on borrowed time. Taking a last glance at Garad and Beregond, she left the room.

Damrod let out a pent up breath. "We got past her easier than I would have thought."

Faramir didn't answer, marshalling his strength to rise. Damrod thwarted him with a hand on his shoulder, keeping him sitting. Understanding what Faramir had intended, he moved the chair to bring it to rest where Elena had been standing.

He turned to Garad first, for Garad was easier to take for all that he was tied to his bed like it was a rack, his leg stretched out and held in traction so the bone would heal evenly. He looked smaller than he should, lying on his back with his arms at his side, belted down so he could not move in his fever and twist his leg out of alignment. His face was drawn, pale despite the tan of his skin, and he didn't look happy in his sleep.

With effort, Faramir took Garad's fingers in his hand, finding them without fever but warm nonetheless. The bonds weren't cutting off his circulation, though he knew Elena would have made certain sure of that. She had probably been the one to truss him up, as she was an acknowledged expert in such things, though she usually plied her art in more pleasing and private circumstances than this.

Giving Garad's fingers a reassuring press, he let go of him and turned to Beregond. He was face down on a bed especially made for injuries like his, high off the floor so his nurses could tend him with greatest efficiency. His head and neck were supported by the pallet, while his face rested in a hole cut for it, its edges padded. His arms rested on short, padded boards attached to the sides of the bed, slightly lower than the main platform to hold them in comfort. There were no bandages on his back, just a thick, glistening coat of honey over the flesh that had been scoured clean of its dead tissue. Rolled cloth tucked along his side kept the honey from soiling the mattress, a thick pad of clean, bruised comfrey leaves under the rolls and his torso an added layer of protection and healing.

It wasn't going to be enough. Faramir's fists clenched as he studied the damage, noting with clinical detachment where the sinew of the muscles had been revealed or destroyed, recognizing the irreparable damage done. No one could survive wounds like this, it just wasn't possible. Bear should already be dead, would have been left for dead or offered the mercy stroke in Minas Tirith….

Ignoring the pain, he forced his arm to obey him, to reach upward to find and check the pulse in Beregond's wrist. It was faint, but steady, his skin warm and dry, not cold and clammy with impending death.

The burns hadn't gone as deep as the bone; he began to argue with himself. If Beregond hadn't died of wound coldness yet, he likely wasn't going to, not here, not with the healers he had tending him. His spine was intact, still covered however thinly by the tissue of his flesh; his internal organs hadn't been touched. The properties of the honey would keep the healing skin wet and supple, as well as keep the burns from turning putrid. Perhaps he did have a chance….

"Every hour is a victory," Damrod said. "They have him deeply asleep, where pain can't touch him. Hold to hope, Mir."

'Hold to hope….' How many times had he heard that from Boromir? How many times had his brother been right?

"I will stay with them," Faramir said. "Can we move my bed in here?"

Damrod chuckled, turning the chair so Faramir wouldn't have to turn his head. There was a bed already there, on the other side of Garad.

"That is Elena's."

The chair moved again, revealing another cot along the curving wall. "She has three patients in this ward, Oh My Captain, and her Lady beside. She will be close to all of you sleeping there."

"Four patients," Faramir corrected. "You're not off the hook yet, Oh My Sergeant. Where is your bed?"

"They are bringing a pallet for me."

"You will not sleep on the floor. Take the cot by Garad; I have a bed that will serve me."

"I will sleep on the floor," Damrod answered firmly. "And so shall you, when you are able. When Beregond wakes, I would have him know he is safe."

A pallet would fit under the tall bed, Faramir realized, his instinctive nod of approval leaving him biting his lip to stop his gasp of pain.

"Your turn," Damrod ordered, giving the chair a little push to warn Faramir he was about to move it. Pressing Bear's unresponsive fingers, Faramir managed to get his arm to fall across his lap rather than flop down beside the chair like a string of sausages.

"Serves you right," Damrod told him, completely without sympathy. "Next time you pull that stunt, stand on the other side of the ravine."


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Boromir woke to a sensation he couldn't quite place, a sharp tingling on his chin, and tiny dabs of wet roughness on his cheek. His curiosity wasn't strong enough to make his eyes open, despite his resolute mental command to make them do just that. It seemed his pillow had sapped his will of all its strength, whispering to him that if he just lay still long enough, whatever it was would go away, and he could fall back into sleep again.

Then something smacked his chin, and tiny, sharp little fangs sank into the tip of his nose.

Yelping, he bolted upright, forcing his sleep-gummed eyes to crack open to see what the hell had attacked him. Even before he could focus his blurry vision on the squirming furry bundle in his hands, the outraged high-pitched mewl told him he'd been attacked by a kitten.

"What the fuck…?" he muttered, staring at the little orange tabby monster currently biting the shit out of his fingers.

"I know how you like a little pussy in the morning," Liel told him, laughing as she rescued the little scrap of felinity from his grasp. Then he really was awake, and aware of that part of him that always woke up before the rest of him did.

She was dressed as he liked best, wearing nothing but the cascade of her black hair. It fell in waves from its long confinement in her braids, its blunt-cut ends frisking around her hips. As she turned and bent to return the kitten to its mother and its siblings, basking on a cushion in front of the fire, her hair swayed and parted, falling to her sides and revealing a beauty only Boromir of all living Men had been privileged to see.

"We slept too long," she told him, standing up and turning toward him. Behind her, he could see the barrel tub with steam rising from it.

"Did we?" he asked, having to shift how he was sitting before he crippled himself against the taut fabric of his sleeping rope, where it was caught and held by the weight of his body.

"A bath isn't going to be enough to clear my meridians," she grinned. "It's going to need something a little stronger to blow the chaff out, if you're up to it; Oh My Champion."

He lowered a leg and moved the covers to let her know he was, indeed.

SCENE BREAK

Sighing, Liel took one last look at Boromir slumbering on the wreckage of the cots, buttressed by Naneth and her kittens, all equally fast asleep in the warmth. She hated to leave him, but the healing she had done while they sported would work best if he rested, and she had other patients to attend to. It wouldn't be long before he would truly wake, and once again take up the duties of the Captain-General of Gondor.

The Corsairs of Umbar were stirring, and he must strike, and strike hard, before that nest of vipers hatched again. War was on them once again, and would leave no time for dalliance or the indulgence of sentiment, not if Gondor was to survive.

SCENE BREAK

"I don't have the men to spare to send out patrols," Lindur apologized, but Theodred waved him off as they strolled toward Boromir's room to see if he was yet awake to share their councils.

"My cousin Eomer knows his business. He holds the Eastfold for good reason, for he is a valiant warrior and cunning leader, and that is where Rohan and Gondor are hard pressed. No, it is the storms and the needs of the villagers that slow their arrival. Truly, it has only been two days, if that, since we set out."

"True enough, but if this garrison had its full complement, like in the old days…. We might help to make their journey easier."

"Or to drive Eomer mad," Theodred said cheerfully. "I think perhaps I should spend some time riding with him in the coming days, and make him come home to Edoras more often than he has of late."

"Forgive my impertinence, Lord, but is your cousin… ambitious?"

Theodred laughed again. "For honor and brave deeds? Yes, perhaps too much, though this new command of Men has tempered that in him. For a crown and throne? I think he would sooner roll in biting ants while covered in honey. No, Commander, I think my cousin is lonely. A Lord of Men also needs to have friends he cannot command, whose lives are not always in his hand to protect and to spend as need demands."

"Bring him often to Gondor then, My Lord, for our young princes need such company as well."

"Better they come to Edoras," Theodred grinned. "I doubt Gondor could stand the shock!"

"Oh, the seventh level of Minas Tirith might have a few bouts of apoplexy, but I think the rest of us will deal with it well enough," Lindur countered as they came to a stop in front of the mostly closed door to Boromir's room.

Pursing his lips, Theodred shot a glance at the older Man standing beside him. By way of answer, Lindur reached out and gave the door a push. It took only a moment or two of careful peering to determine that Boromir was dead to the world, and to take a pretty good guess as to why.

"Should we wake him?" Lindur asked quietly, his gaze traveling from the broken cots to the water standing on the floor beside the tub.

"No. Let him sleep while he may, and dream on pleasant things. He will have little of either of them when we take on the pirates."


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Faramir knew he was dreaming, though it was less dream and more memory, his sleeping mind telling him what was troubling him. He was in Minas Tirith, in his father's house, walking through its walls like he was a ghost, an insubstantial, unwelcome visitor.

He found his father and brother in the Steward's private sitting room, the place where their family had once gathered in happiness to share their meals and the achievements of the day.

"Enough!" Boromir snarled. "You will not chain Faramir in Minas Tirith! He has earned the right to go to Ithilien!"

"He will stay here!" Denethor thundered; "Where he can do no harm to you or anyone else."

"Faramir is no danger to me, or to Gondor! It is you who endanger us, because you will not see him as he is!"

"He will kill you as he killed his mother!"

"Mother's death was an accident. Faramir might have saved her, if you had been a father when he came to you!"

"She fell to her death because she was chasing after him. I will not lose you the same way, my Firstborn! He will stay here, where I can protect you from him. You will not find your death trying to keep him from harm."

"Your fears should be for Faramir, not for me! It is he who risks himself again and again to save me from the folly of my recklessness."

"I see clearly where you do not. He will not take you from me, as he took your mother!"

"You will not take Faramir from me, or from Gondor. We need him, and if you weren't such a bitter old fool, you would see the worth of his love."

"You will do as I have ordered!"

"Faramir goes to Ithilien.

"You dare disobey me?"

"This is not a decision for the Steward to make. I am the Captain-General of Gondor. Strip me of my rank and resume the duty yourself, if you do not care for how I do the job!"

"Enough!" Faramir said, though he knew they would not hear him, as they had not heard him that morning not so long ago.

"You are the hope of Gondor, my Son," Denethor soothed, taking a different tack. "You will be the King it has waited for so long, it is your destiny, as it is mine to protect you from the weakness of your heart."

"And you say I flirt with treason. Be Man enough to reach your own hand to take the crown you covet, I will not steal it for you!"

"This is your brother's influence. He is jealous of you, jealous of what you could be! His loyalty to the past will drown you in its failures! What does Gondor owe to a king who abandoned her?"

"Honor is all Gondor has left. I won't let you or anyone else piss on it!"

"An excess of honor led Eärnur to his suicide. It is overrated, and a useless virtue for those who would rule."

"Rest assured, should Sauron kill you I won't be running out to avenge you in single combat, my Lord."

"No, you reserve that loyalty for your brother. You loved me once, Boromir."

"You bastard," Faramir told his father, taking the freedom the dream offered him to step between Boromir and Denethor; "You fucking, manipulative, miserable bastard! Leave him alone!"

"I love you still," Boromir answered quietly. "There is room in my heart for both of you. Can you not say the same for your sons?"

Faramir didn't turn around. He didn't need to in order to see his brother's shoulders slump and his head lower. Boromir did indeed still love their father, and Denethor used that love like a club to beat him.

He studied this dream representation of their father carefully, searching for any clue to what drove this derangement of feeling, but all he could find was a jealousy that bordered on madness, the same as he always found, waking or sleeping. What he had yet to determine was if Denethor's jealousy was for the bond he shared with Boromir, or if he was jealous of Boromir himself. It must gall him to know that his Firstborn could, indeed, stretch out his hand and take up the crown of Anárion to the cheers of all of Gondor, while if he tried such a thing, all of Gondor would rise against his rule.

"Then prove you love me. Yield to my wisdom in this, let Faramir serve in the Houses of Healing. He has some talent there, though his heart has been swayed by the superstitions of your mistress."

"Faramir will go to Ithilien," Boromir said again, the dangerous edge back in his voice.

"He will be the death of you, my Son. He has already cost us your mother; will you let him take everything from me?"

"You are a fool. Faramir is the greatest jewel in your kingdom, and you spit on him. Yet he still loves you. You do not deserve him."

This time, Faramir did turn to look at Boromir, his heart sinking to see the glittering edge of anger turning to hatred in his brother's eyes. How had it come to this, that he was being twisted into a rope meant to hang both his brother and his father?

Then Boromir's eyes changed, grew hard and cold, calculating, everything one would expect to find in the son of Denethor.

"Come, Father," Boromir cajoled, his forced smile unsettling Faramir as little else could. "This is not your burden to bear. You worry yourself needlessly. Faramir will be far away in Ithilien, our paths will seldom cross unless they do so here, at your table. You are merely tired, over-worked. Come, you must rest."

Boromir stepped through Faramir's ghostly dream form, took Denethor's arm in his hand, the fingers growing white. Denethor recognized the inherent threat, but chose to cling to Boromir instead, pathetically grateful for the marked attention.

Faramir remembered the night he had overheard this conversation well. Denethor had kept Boromir with him the rest of the day and through the night, making him dance attendance on him until the time had come for Faramir to ride away to his first posting.

Faramir's anger surged, and since it was a dream, he didn't try containing it, cocking back his fist and sending it pounding into Denethor's face.

The shock of pain as his hand clenched in his body bolted him awake just as the blow fell.

"_Faranin_?"

Liel's voice was quiet and calm, helping him master his breathing and settle himself back into his aching body.

"You really should not travel, not for a while," she chided, sitting down on the edge of his cot. Picking up the hand he had clenched, she began to work on it, soothing it, loosening its muscles, using it as a pressure-point short-cut to ease his other pains.

"Just a dream," he assured her, with a deep, clearing sigh. "Where is Boromir?"

"I left him asleep. He will need all his energy when Eomer arrives with the other refugees. So will you."

Despite his protesting muscles, he got an elbow bent and pushed himself up. Liel helped him, taking the opportunity to pull his collar and observe his neck and shoulders fore and aft.

"It could be worse," she told him. "When I have eaten, I will tend to you."

"Thank you," he told her, looking to where Garad and Beregond lay. They seemed not to have moved since sleep had taken him, though Elena was in her cot and Damrod was snoring softly in his pallet under Bear's tall bed.

"They are both stable," she assured him. "And I have made sure Damrod will take the rest he needs."

"I need to talk to Boromir," he told her.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Boromir woke to a purring warmth stretched along his spine. Blinking his eyes open, he realized he was looking at the flagstones of the floor, and a little further away, his brother's bare feet propped on the board of an invalid chair, the decorative fringe of a blanket that must have been brought from Osgiliath dripping across them. The kittens had found board, fringe, and feet irresistible, and knowing Faramir, the sentiment had been mutual.

Mindful of the mother cat behind him, Boromir stretched and tilted his head back to look up at his brother. The biggest kitten, the twin of the orange tabby who had decided his nose was an Orc, lay on its back in Faramir's lap, held securely in the hammock the blanket made. Its little paws were stretched to the four winds, its head hanging backward, resting on the dip between Faramir's knees; its huge ears making its head look impossibly tiny and delicate. It was fast asleep; no doubt lulled there by the absent-minded fingers caressing its round little belly with gentle rhythm.

"Nice mess you've made," Faramir congratulated him, though his severe eyebrow couldn't override his welcoming smile. "Those cots are made to take the weight of a six-foot soldier in full kit and armor, you know."

"We make two six-footers between us," Boromir reminded him through a yawn. "And we hadn't seen each other in a while."

Faramir just shook his head, as he always did, but his smile grew.

Sitting up slowly, Boromir was pleased to discover the grease had been put back on his hinges, as Liel was usually able to do. There were still a few catches here and there, and he would be stiff until he had the opportunity to work or walk it off. He doubted there would be time for the most pleasant way of finishing his recovery. The Pirates of Umbar wouldn't wait for his attention, where Liel would.

"How are your Men?" he asked, having a care with the blanket. He wondered where his borrowed sleep tunic had gotten to, turning to look for it.

"It's in the tub," Faramir told him, reading his intent as usual. "_Osthiril_ is sending your cleaned and mended clothes. As for my Men…. They are stable. Garad should recover to full capacity, and if Beregond continues as he is, he will live to hold his children."

"May it please the Valar," Boromir sighed, running a hand through his hair. The mother cat seemed to take the gesture as an invitation, shifting herself so she lay on her back along his thigh.

"Like mother, like son," Boromir chuckled, careful with her petting as she was still nursing her brood.

Faramir didn't answer, but he lost his smile. Boromir sighed again.

"All right, spit it out. What have I done this time?"

Faramir's gaze dropped to the kitten in his lap. Fingering its big ears, Faramir pursed his lips, considering his answer.

Resisting the urge to groan, Boromir gave the mother cat a final pat and pushed to his feet. Whatever was bothering Faramir would take its own sweet time to find its expression, and in the meantime, he had to piss.

He was in the middle of relieving himself when Faramir said, "She wasn't running after me, you know. When she fell."

It was the last thing he expected or wanted to hear, especially in his current circumstances. What the hell had made Faramir bring up the one subject he never spoke of, and why now? At least his task in hand gave him an excuse to stall while he gathered his wits to him.

As he bent to splash his hands in the cool bathwater to appease his fastidious brother, it occurred to him that Faramir had spoken when he did so he would have some distance in dealing with the difficult subject he had broached.

"There was black ice on the stair," Boromir finally said, finding an abandoned towel to wipe his hands and arms and other parts off with. "Neither of you could have seen it."

"I had her hand. I'd made her give me her basket, so she could hold the rail."

"You've always been careful," Boromir told him. "It's me she would have been chasing." He paused, considered what would be best to say next. While his mind was still considering it, his heart prompted his mouth to blurt out, "Why do you bring this up now?"

Wishing he could strangle his tongue, Boromir winced, waiting for Faramir to pull away into his shut-mouthed pensiveness.

"Damrod told me you tried to throw yourself into the ravine. He said you had tried to commit suicide."

Boromir snorted. "Damrod should know me better!"

"He said it was simply an unfortunate choice of words. Was it?"

Running a hand through his hair again, Boromir cast his mind back to the moment he had seen Faramir jump. He remembered that clearly, seeing Faramir jump rather than fall. He didn't remember much after that, until Damrod had pulled him up by the short hairs.

"No. I mean, yes. Damn it, Faramir! Put yourself in my place! What would you have done?"

When he didn't answer, Boromir returned to the broken bed, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around his waist before he sat. He would give Faramir the height advantage, but by the Valar, they were getting to the bottom of this. He'd lost enough sleep when they'd been boys chasing a sleep-walking Faramir. He had no desire to be doing it now, when Faramir was so much more dangerous, nor did he wish to relive the agony of explaining to his brother that their mother was dead, that his quest to find help in time to save her had failed.

Thanks to their father.

He dropped his gaze to the kittens swinging on the fringe, reached out and took the smaller orange one to pet, to hide his expression from Faramir. If Denethor had only left his studies when Faramir came to him, as he would have if it had been his Firstborn asking the Guard for him….

"It's not your fault our father is a fool," Faramir said, following his thoughts as no one else could. "But even a liar stumbles over the truth once in a while."

Boromir wrinkled his brow, looking up at his brother while the little blighter he'd picked up chewed away on his thumb. "Have mercy, Mir. What the hell are you getting at?"

"I could be of use in the Houses of Healing. I would be content to serve Gondor there."

'Fuck!' Boromir swore to himself, aware with part of his mind that the kitten had ceased its biting to lick his hand instead.

"I wondered why he had picked that time and place to speak of something long since decided. His words were for you to hear." Boromir sighed heavily. "Ask yourself this: If it had been Garad, or Theodred, or some stranger who bore the White Tree…. Do you think I would have acted any differently?"

Faramir made no reply, but he was frowning as he considered the question.

"I didn't know the ground was unstable, but I knew the end of the charge could pull up in time to save themselves. Whatever cover you had leapt to might not have been enough."

"Hindsight?" Faramir demanded sharply.

Boromir slowly shook his head. "You wouldn't have jumped, otherwise. You would have taken your chance with the horses. Even at a charge, a horse will avoid an obstacle beneath its feet if it can. I cannot say I could have explained that at the moment, but I understood it."

Faramir's expression finally began to ease. "That's true. You don't waste time thinking."

"Not in a fight," Boromir agreed. "I can't do it fast enough for it to serve, not like you." Reaching out, he tapped the top of one of Faramir's feet with his fingers, hard enough to make his little brother wince. "You scared the shit out of me, you little bastard."

"Turn about is fair play," Faramir reminded him, a smile beginning to warm his face.

Lifting the kitten he held, Boromir kissed the top of its head, getting a nose full of paw with its sharp little claws for his reward. "I fear we will both be in for it when Liel gets the full story of this escapade."

"I will be safe in Ithilien," Faramir reminded him, and Boromir felt himself relax.

"I may come join you," he said, grinning. Then, as casually as he could, he said, "I'd like to see them, if you think it would do no harm."

Faramir's smile grew, lifted by the breath of his own quiet laugh. "I think it would be all to the good. As soon as your trousers arrive, we will go."

Putting his kitten down beside its mother, he cleared its three siblings from the fringe and the footboard as well. Faramir was reluctant to hand over his little fellow.

"Your trousers aren't here," he pointed out.

"All the more reason to go find them," Boromir answered, ruthlessly stealing the kitten from Faramir. Its huge yawn ended on a tiny little squeak of sound as it joined the pig pile around its mother. Standing carefully, he pulled his blanket wrap higher, tucking it around his waist as securely as he could. It wasn't an ideal situation, but if it came to it, he only needed one hand to push the damned chair.

"Indeed, I think you will be the one Garad needs the most of all of us," Faramir murmured.

"Me? Why?"

"They tortured Bear to make Garad speak. He will blame himself for what happened, for a little while. He will not be able to speak of it to me, or to Damrod, without accusing us as well. But with you, he can speak freely."

"He's been through this sort of thing before," Boromir said. "He'll be all right."

"But you will speak to him?"

"Yes," Boromir told him. "Don't fuss at him, Mir. He's going to feel bad enough, without you treating him like spun glass."

"Just – speak to him before you leave for Dol Amroth."

"Before we leave. And we're not going to Dol Amroth, there's no time. Uncle Imrahil will have to come to us."

"No time?" Faramir asked, frowning.

"The Pirates, they're expecting horsemen escorting barrels full of tar. I say, let's give them what they expect, as we have both barrels and the Riders of Rohan. It worked well enough back on the river."

"And what if one of the Raiders escaped? What if the Corsairs of Umbar are forewarned?"

"It's a chance worth taking."

"We'll need more Men."

"That's where Uncle Imrahil comes in. I can't spare any more from Osgiliath, just in case the Corsairs are in collusion with our other enemies."

"What of the Men of Minas Tirith?" Faramir asked him quietly.

"There is not time to send for them," Boromir answered, after a few moments.

"But there is time to send for Imrahil of Dol Amroth?" It was the question their father would ask, what his council would demand to know.

"We will find each other by happy chance, as he was investigating rumors of piracy in strength."

Faramir considered the excuse, then nodded. "You have that kind of luck. Father will believe it, if you are the one to convince him."

Boromir didn't answer, and Faramir didn't push him for one. It was enough that his brother no longer trusted Denethor and those creatures the Steward held in his confidence. Gondor would be safer for it, and so would Boromir.


	35. Chapter 35

"My Lord!" Gamling called.

Eomer turned from watching the pontoon bridge assemble in time to see Gamling dismount.

"What is it?" he asked, warily eyeing the line of grey clouds pressing down on them from the East. The last thing they needed was another storm like the one that had nearly drowned them a few days back.

"The Woman, Lailaith…. The baby's coming."

"Fuck," Eomer said. It would take half the day to get the bridge assembled securely enough for it to be a safe crossing….

"It could have come at a worse time and place," Gamling said. "Babies are like that, you know. And least this one isn't early –"

"Or landing in the middle of the Yule table," Eomer finished for him. He knew well the story of his own birth, as Theodred never tired of telling the story of his untimely arrival. "Send word to the Garrison; tell them we need a faster way to bring one of us to shelter, at least."

SCENE BREAK

"I'm sorry!" Lailaith ground out from between her clenched teeth, looking up as Eomer swung down from his horse.

"No need," Eomer told the panting woman, giving her a reassuring smile. "This is nothing compared to where and when the mares choose to give birth!"

Her husband Tarcien laughed as he rubbed her shoulders, a desperate note to it as he too looked to the Eastern Horizon; "Or the goats!".

"The goats had sense to get in out of the rain," she answered grimly. "It's the sheep that are the worst!"

"True enough," Eomer agreed, taking off his cloak and handing it to her husband. "Driving sleet and howling gales, stuck in the middle of a briar thicket, that's how those little buggers like it."

Tarcien gave him a look of gratitude, wrapping the thick, warm wool around the Woman. She was sitting on the two blankets the family had shared on the journey to Cair Andros, with nothing but her thin, worn dress and the huddled wall of her husband and two daughters around her to keep the chill of the river and the bite of the wind from her.

"It may be a while yet," she told him, with her own glance at the Eastern sky. "The pains have only just started, it can take hours."

"Not if the little one is anything like my sister or me," Eomer told her. "They tell me my first cradle was the golden dish meant to serve the boar's head to my Uncle's Yule table."

Her laugh was interrupted by the pain of her labor, and despite himself, Eomer started to sweat.

"Ciran is fetching Rian," the oldest daughter told him shyly, half-hiding her face behind her baby sister, held securely in her arms.

"Good," Eomer told her, hoping he didn't look as relieved as he felt.

Gamling arrived first.

"They're sending help," he announced, the expression on his face a combination of delight and trepidation Eomer had learned long ago to be suspect of.

"A boat?"

"Not quite." Gamling pointed at the wall closest to them, as if that should explain all.

Frowning, Eomer studied the fortress, seeing nothing but smooth white walls. Then motion on the top of the wall caught his gaze, until it solidified into a trebuchet.

"What the hell are they doing?"

"I'm not sure," Gamling admitted. "They just said to stand clear."

SCENE BREAK

Envy was not an emotion Eomer often felt, but he felt it now as he watched Theodred and Boromir on the top of the wall, preparing to slide down the cable-thick rope secured to the eye of the trebuchet's massive arrow. The arrow was sunk feet deep into the high part, secure enough that it would take the weight of a full Eored and their horses before it would consider budging.

From the top of the wall, Boromir threw another rope over the first, holding it in the middle and dropping its ends to the soldiers appearing outside the fortress on the island's sward. They'd brought a ship's winch, and a small boat outfitted with a railing supporting flanges where the ropes could be threaded through.

Between the winch and the well-imbedded arrow and the willing hands on both sides, they would be able to pull the weary villagers to safety and shelter, though the horses and their riders and the tar would have to weather the coming storm where they were.

Boromir came down the anchored rope first, gripping a bar suspended from the rope by the same kind of pulley used to haul sails on a warship; his legs piked high as he sailed over the water, carrying the other rope with him as he came. Once clear of the water, with only a few feet between the soles of his boots and the ground, he let go.

Eomer was the first to shake his hand, and help him secure the heavy rope on the body of the giant arrow. He'd brought more tackle hooked over his shoulders, to keep the rope safe from friction and wear.

"Theodred has the lard," Boromir explained, turning to wave up at the wall. Seconds later, Theodred was standing with them, whooping with the exhilaration of the ride. He carried another rope and pulley with him, along with the jar of lubricating grease, which dug painfully into Eomer as his cousin hugged him fiercely in greeting.

"I hear we're having a baby?" Boromir asked, already having sighted the cluster of activity around Lailaith and her family.

"Do I need to send for a platter?" Theodred asked, laughing.

"Just get her out of the weather," Eomer growled, nodding at the Men already putting the broad little boat in the water. "She's been through more than enough as it is."

Boromir nodded in silent agreement, clapping Eomer on the shoulder before turning to rig their end of the boat relay.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

He felt like he dived too deeply under the water, was struggling to rise toward the bright surface, wondering if he had enough air to make it there. He couldn't move his arms, or his legs, nothing he called upon would aid him in his climb. The band of pressure across his chest grew tighter, more painful, yet the light was no closer. He started to panic, struggling to command his body.

A different kind of pain grabbed him, yanking his hair at the top of his head, pulling him straight up. His speed grew and so did the strength of the pull, the light growing brighter, stronger—

Then he was awake, jolting into awareness, feeling like he was jumping, his body jolting painfully.

"Garad!" he heard Faramir whisper, the words warm against his cold ear. "I have you! It's all right now."

It was hard to breathe, his whole body trembling, nerves jangling. He was aware of pain, but couldn't locate it. His mind spun, his hands feeling like they were backwards on his wrist.

"Easy," Faramir soothed, and Garad felt his hand stroking where the ache of the pull that had saved him still resonated. It worked wonderfully, body rejoining with his mind, his racing heartbeat steadying.

The pain was in his leg, and his back and neck. He was unbearably stiff, with leather straps holding him in one place. Panic rose again, but Faramir was here, and something else, the scent of jasmine somehow working its way through the burning herbs and the smell of wounds and his own stink to reassure him.

"Quietly," Faramir urged, and Garad felt his Captain's other hand come to rest over his heart. "That's it, be easy."

Garad tried to oblige him, blinking into the dimness. "Where…?" he managed to get out.

"Cair Andros."

"Bear…?"

"Right beside you."

He tried to turn his head in the direction Faramir wasn't, but that was strapped down too.

"Shh," Faramir coaxed. "You'll wake our keepers. Neither of us is to be stirring."

"…r-right…." he managed to gasp, screwing his eyes shut. Faramir's hands moved, and the strap holding his head down was unbuckled and lifted from him, followed by the ones holding his shoulders and his chest and arms. The sense of claustrophobia lifted immediately, and he raised shaking hands to scrub his face.

"You've been fevered," Faramir said. "Your leg is broken, it must not be moved."

Faramir's hand slipped behind his head, lifting it. Garad tried to help, but was unable to do more than swallow the gingered honey-water from the invalid bottle held to his lips. It was delicious, perhaps the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, but after a few sips, he was exhausted. When his head was laid back on the pillow, he couldn't keep his eyes open, until a sudden fear gave him strength.

"…Damrod…?"

"Is busy having a baby," Faramir answered, amusement in his voice.

Bewildered, Garad struggled to understand. "…how long…?"

Faramir's amusement became a low laugh. "Not long, just a few days."

"…we were on the river…."

"Is that the last you remember?"

"…I…. Boromir was swearing…."

"There were storms, but we made Cair Andros safely. _Osthiril_ was here, and, well…. Bear is still with us."

"...he's all right…?"

There was a long pause. "No. But he lives, and is still a Man."

Garad blinked back the tears he couldn't control, feeling their warmth slide down the sides of his face. He tried to keep his breathing even, but failed at that, too. Faramir's hand took his, pressing it hard, painfully, giving him something to concentrate on, allowing him to discipline his emotions.

"The fortunes of war, Garad," Faramir said firmly. Garad returned his clasp as well as he could, and Faramir ran a thumb across his knuckles to let him know he understood.

"…baby…?" he prompted, fighting against the weariness pulling him down into darkness. He didn't want to return to its grasp, afraid of drowning in the deep darkness he had been rescued from.

"The villagers we rescued, they followed behind us with an escort of Rohirrim," Faramir told him.

Garad frowned, trying to capture the pieces of his memory floating by. They hadn't been that far West, had they? No, they weren't the ones who had gone to Rohan.

"Boromir…?"

"Showed up with Theodred, his cousin Eomer and an Eored from the Eastfold in the nick of time, as usual."

The exasperated affection in Faramir's dry tone warmed Garad better than the blankets his Captain was now fussing with, covering him, hiding his freedom from prying eyes.

"Eomer and his Men brought the villagers along behind us. One of them was heavily pregnant, Valar bless her. She managed to make it here, but once she felt the safety of the harbor walls around her…."

Garad chuckled weakly.

"The garrison healers aren't used to such issues, though I suspect it shall become part of their lives over the next little while," Faramir finished.

"…the tar?"

"Eomer brought that, too. But you must rest, Garad, or Elena will have my head."

The jasmine burst on his senses again, bringing back the heady sensations and tumbling memories of summer nights spent in the gardens of the Dome of Osgiliath, the distant music of strings and flutes floating from the ballroom into the garden, setting a waltzing tempo for their love making.

"…she's here…?"

"She goes where her Lady does," Faramir reminded him gently.

Garad smiled, not caring what the reason was that brought his butterfly to his side when he most needed the cheer of her beauty.

"Not that you'll be fit for sporting for a while," Faramir said, and Garad understood the warning. Elena had never made it a secret she lived for the fun of love, and woe to the Man who took such things seriously.

"…be all right," he told Faramir, mustering the strength for a grin.

"Mm," Faramir replied, and Garad easily imagined the frowning regard his Captain was giving him, though he could no longer keep his eyes open to see it. There was a wealth of previous lectures in that single syllable, but Faramir didn't add to their number. "Rest, Garad," was all he said. "I have you."

Reassured, confident that the deep darkness would be kept at bay, Garad allowed sleep to take him.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

A/N Sorry For long delay in updates, I tried for four days in a row to post this ch, and FF NET wouldn't let me. I gave up, and am trying again now. Fingers crossed. And , btw, Merry Christmas everyone! Enjoy!

FINALLY got this problem fixed. Hope you all remember where you're up to!

Carolyn

"Thirsty?" Garad heard Boromir ask.

He realized he was, and the realization brought him the rest of the way awake.

"Here." A strong arm slid beneath his neck, boosting him slowly, steadying him as Boromir's free hand held a cup to Garad's chapped lips.

He swallowed, blinked gluey eyelids, and Boromir's face slowly swam into focus.

"My turn to watch over the chicks," Boromir told him with a wry smile.

"…Where's…?"

"Your usual keepers? Faramir is with Damrod, preparing the barges for our ambush. Elena is with Liel, preparing for Her Grace to return to Osgiliath with our escort."

"She's leaving…?"

"Liel is. She will be needed in the City. Elena will stay here, until you and Beregond are well enough to travel home by boat."

Garad took another swallow then moved his head away from the cup. He felt vastly relieved that Elena was staying with him, yet at the same time he would have given half the years allotted to his life to be able to rise and go join his Captain and Sergeant in preparing to carry the war to their enemy.

"Had enough?"

Garad nodded, and Boromir eased his head back onto the pillow.

"Glad you could make the party, Sunshine," he ground out, giving Boromir his best attempt at a grin.

"You should try to drink some more. You lost a lot of blood before Liel could get you stitched and squared away, and you were long fevered."

"How did you get Her Grace here so fast?" Garad asked, waving off the water

"She got herself here." Boromir shrugged, putting the cup back on the table. Turning back to the bed, he looked down at Garad's leg.

It was hard to miss, wrapped in splints and what seemed a mile of neat white bandaging, the entire package propped on pillows and still held by the tackle of traction. Garad wiggled the bare toes sticking out of it at Boromir, managing not to wince at the pain.

"How's it feel?" Boromir asked, raising an eyebrow to let him know he wasn't buying what Garad was trying sell.

"Bloody uncomfortable!"

"Tough. I told you to keep your boots dry."

"I did!" Garad protested, his voice more sharp than he'd intended. "Fucking spring ambushed me!"

Boromir smiled a little and shook his head.

"Thank you for that warning, by the way," Garad told him. "I'd taken pains to keep them dry, so when I stepped into the middle of a fucking puddle lurking where it shouldn't have been, I stopped and took a good look around. It saved my life."

"Pains?" Boromir asked, making as if to pinch Garad's toes.

Garad shrugged. "I took my boots off before we crossed the river. So did Bear…."

He turned his head toward where Beregond lay. He hadn't moved since the last time Garad had checked on him. "Has he woken yet?"

Boromir shook his head. "Not yet. But he holds his own. Liel told me she has hope."

"Those Orcfucking bastards…" Garad swore, this time keeping his tears in check, though he kept his face averted from Boromir. "It's all a game to them, and I played it very badly…."

"Don't."

A strong hand gripped his forearm forcibly enough to make him wince. He turned his head and met Boromir's hard, level gaze.

"Beregond and Faramir and Damrod and the people you sought to protect are alive, because of how well you played that game. No second guessing, not for you, or for me. We did what we had to," the Captain-General of Gondor told him with absolute finality.

His gaze locked with those piercing green eyes and all the ugly memory they shielded, Garad knew the advice for hard-won truth. He nodded. Boromir eased his hold, but did not let go.

There was a long moment's companionable silence before Boromir smiled again

"Elena says she's going to kick your butt for getting yourself all smashed up," Boromir informed him cheerfully.

Garad huffed out a laugh. "She told me I was her great Idiot."

Boromir snorted. "True love!" he warned.

"I should be so lucky," Garad sighed.

Boromir just laughed, letting go of his arm. "Banish doubt from your heart, Lieutenant. I will return your Captain and your Sergeant to you soon enough. In the meantime, they will need you to see to the rest of your Square."

"Yes, Oh My Captain-General!" Garad saluted, following it with a flip of his two fingers in the time honoured Ranger signal that roughly translated as "go fuck yourself."

Boromir laughed as he always did when given such respectful disrespect by his brother's Men. "Next time, don't burn so much of ourtar. Didn't anyone tell you we need that stuff?"

"It was mentioned once or twice," Garad said dryly.

"By the way, the Orcspawn you roasted is dead. He sang a pretty tune for Theodred and Eomer while he was dying, in exchange for something to ease his pain."

"Theodred," Garad repeated. "Leave it to you to drag Rohan into this."

Boromir shrugged. "Not my fault. They followed me home."

"You do collect the damnedest strays," Garad agreed, yawning despite his best effort not to.

"Speaking of which…."

"Uh oh."

"His name's Ciran. He'll be keeping an eye on you two while I'm gone."

"How old is he?"

"Old enough to help save your Captain's life; his mother has just presented him with his third sister. I think he's feeling somewhat… besieged. Play your cards right, and the lad could be your spare legs."

"You really are an old grandmother, you know that?" Garad told him fondly.

"His father is a brewer of exceptional ability, or so I'm told," Boromir grinned.

"I take it back. You're a cunning bastard."

Boromir's grin became a laugh, before fading all together. "The pirates valued his skill enough they wouldn't kill him. He used that advantage to protect his people, but at some cost to himself."

"And the son is like the father," Garad guessed.

"We might not have Faramir whole, if not for the son," Boromir said quietly. "I owe these people much."

"I will make sure Beregond knows," Garad promised. "It will help him to know Ciran."

"Mm," Boromir answered, and then sighed heavily.

"What?"

Boromir shook his head, then smiled a little, amused at himself. "It's my cousin Lothiriel's birthday next week. Taking her father away to help me is not the surprise I had hoped to give her."

"She's what, eight now?"

Boromir nodded. "Old enough to look forward to the celebration, and too young not to feel the disappointment of a missing father."

"Far better that disappointment, than the loss of those she loves to the renewed fleets of Umbar! I'd say it's was a better present than most.

Boromir's smile returned, the one that was always for his brother. "Ah, but that is Faramir's gift."

"That's it," Garad said, hitting his mattress with a fist despite the pain it caused his leg. "Get your ass over here, help me sit up, and tell me what the little fucker did!"

"No one's told you?" Boromir asked, surprised. Nonetheless, he did as Garad had asked him, lifting him carefully and bracing him with the wedge cushion stored at the foot of the bed for the purpose of the small dignity of being able to feed himself.

"Faramir claims he doesn't remember, Damrod just shakes his head, Theodred only laughs, and I know better than to ask the Women."

Boromir grunted, stalling his answer by fussing with Garad's blankets and the pillow under his head. "You know he has Beren's own luck. You remember the plain you were on?"

Garad nodded, stretching his neck and back out gently, trying not to jar anything from his waist down.

"The grass hid a ravine that tumbled some thirty or forty feet into the river below. I don't know what led him to it, but Faramir found it. The raiders were on horseback, half a hundred at least."

Boromir sighed, falling silent and putting his hands on the edge of Garad's bed. It shifted the mattress fractionally, but Garad didn't care, keeping the minor discomfort it caused him from his expression. He wanted to give Boromir time to find words to bracket the difficult emotions he could read in his friend's eyes.

"I remember hearing the villagers say they were on the wrong side of the river," Garad finally said, when he could stand the silence no longer.

"My fault," Boromir said sheepishly. "I don't know what it is, but I seem to take it into my head to sound this damned thing at the strangest times."

His hands left the bed, the left going to the massive Horn of Vorondil, the right raking through his hair. "Theodred tells me the one or two who survived said they'd changed their normal course because they'd heard horns in the night. Those Southrons are superstitious pricks, thank the Valar."

Garad gave him a 'go on' gesture, and tried to look more encouraging than impatient.

"It put them at the correct angle for Faramir to be able to trick them over the edge of the ravine," Boromir said.

Garad's stomach dropped into his knees. "How?"

"There was a ledge under the lip of the ravine that went well back into the bank. He got their attention in the usual way, killing as many as he could until he had to jump down to the ledge. It was a good plan, though only Faramir or a spider had a chance of getting onto it…."

"But?"

"The edge of the ravine couldn't hold the weight of the charge. It collapsed, and so did half the hill, right on top of him. That's why he can't remember what he did; he took one hell of a hit to the head. Lucky bastard."

The last was said softly, almost to himself, and it made Garad frown. "Where were you?'

"Behind the pirates; on the rise before the slope down to the river. A bird's-eye view."

"Shit," Garad muttered. "Is that how Theodred's nose got broken?'

"Faramir jumped!" Boromir snapped indignantly. "As plain as day, he jumped! It's not my fault if the Men of Rohan are short-sighted fuckwits!"

"To you it was plain," Garad told him. "To Faramir it would be plain. To the rest of us…. We'd be more concerned about making sure we didn't lose you both."

"So it has been pointed out," Boromir snapped again.

"Scared you, did he?"

Both hands combed through Boromir's hair this time. "Damn near pissed myself," he admitted quietly.

"Now you know how it feels, Oh My Captain-General! You've given us enough grey hairs; it's time the boot was up your arse for a change."

Boromir's countering protest died at the sound of a tentative throat clearing itself near the open door to the ward. Carefully raising his head, Garad saw a flaxen-haired lad in a much mended tunic standing just outside the room, a babe of perhaps two years in his arms.

"Ciran!" Boromir called, his relief evident. "There you are!"


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

"Sorry, Captain," the boy answered, mixing apology with a rueful kind of pride Garad knew well, being a big brother himself. "But I've got to baby-sit."

"Garad's not doing much at the moment," Boromir said, with a grin of pure evil. "He can help you."

Garad laughed, settling back on his pillows with another yawn. He had no worry about being saddled with a babe in arms, not with Boromir standing beside him.

"We're not supposed to bother you," Ciran said, taking a step closer, but not coming properly into the room.

"No bother," Garad told him. "I can use the company."

The boy glanced at Boromir, received a confirming nod, and came in quickly.

"Brindil isn't taking too well to being the 'old' baby now," Ciran explained to Boromir, jostling the toddler on his hip as he glanced at Garad. "So Thiliel is helping Mother with Eowyn, and I'm looking after Brin while Father is resting."

"Eowyn?" Garad repeated.

"Eomer was called upon to give the name of the loveliest girl he knew, as he was the hero of the hour," Boromir explained, his eyes dancing with merriment.

"Smart answer," Garad nodded. "Unless he's in a rush to wed."

Boromir laughed. "I think his pride in his sister was a greater factor than caution. He could have named her after his mother."

"True enough," Garad agreed, holding out his hand to Ciran. "I am told I have you to thank for my Captain's life."

The boy blushed like a ripe tomato, ducking his head to hide his pleasure. "I didn't do much," he protested. "I just yelled, that's all."

"Ah, so you're officer material," Garad said dryly. The boy blushed even harder when Boromir laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

"He did a damn sight more than yell," Boromir assured them both.

"You'll have to tell me all about it," Garad told Ciran. He managed to stifle his yawn this time, buoyed by the prospect of finally having someone who just might tell him what he wanted to know, rather than what was best for him to know.

"You're supposed to be resting," the boy answered, his attention momentarily distracted from the traction apparatus he was studying.

"I am resting," Garad assured him. "Memorizing it?" he asked with a smile, lifting his chin at the boards and ropes and pulleys.

"It's interesting," the boy answered with a one-shouldered shrug. He was having a little trouble keeping hold of his sister, mostly because she was playing peek-a-boo with Boromir. "It almost looks…. Well, it kind of looks like a trebuchet."

"Similar principle, though they only threaten to fling me through the window with it," Garad told him, distracted himself by the Grand Flirtation carrying on before him. If Beregond had been awake, bets would have been silently flying in sign language as to how long it would be before Boromir had absconded with the child.

That thought took his mind where he didn't want it to go, and he forced himself to smile encouragingly at Ciran. The boy was surrendering his sister to her suitor with a combination of relief and reluctance that spoke volumes about his essential character.

"Have you ever fired a trebuchet?" Ciran asked eagerly.

"A few times, but I'm an archer, not an artilleryman." Sliding a glance at where Boromir was flying little Brindil over his head to her delighted giggles, he asked, "I'm feeling hungry, Cir. How about you?"

"I'm all right," the boy answered, but his stomach betrayed him, rumbling at the mention of food. "I can wait until supper," he said, frowning in the direction of the growl. Yes, the boy would have known lack of food, and with so many other, younger mouths to feed, he would have learned to lie about his own hunger. No wonder Boromir had taken him under wing.

"Well, I can't," Boromir said, demonstrating how famished he was by gobbling up Brindil's bare little toes. She squealed happily, and Garad cast a hopeful glance over at Beregond, but he didn't move even with that ear-splitting provocation.

"Shall we raid the pantry?" Boromir asked the babe now settled in his arms. "Would my Honey like a honey cake?"

Brindil allowed as to how she would with an open-mouthed kiss on Boromir's chin.

"We'll be back," Boromir told them, disappearing out the door.

"The Valar only know what he'll come back with," Garad sighed.

"I should go with him," Ciran said, clearly torn between fascination and duty. "She might take a turn, and scream the house down, if I'm not there."

"She won't," Garad assured him. "Trust me, she's in love."

"He should get married," Ciran said, shaking his head; "No matter what his father says."

Garad hid his surprise behind a raised hand and a cough. He looked to have hit a Mithril vein with his chosen informant.

Ciran shot him a glance, and it was clear he was wondering if he had said something he shouldn't have. "Is he really the Captain-General of Gondor?' he asked, his voice lowering in confidence.

"And the High Warden of the Tower Guard," Garad confirmed.

Ciran thought about that for a few moments, then sighed. "I suppose if your father is the Steward, you just can't go getting married when you feel like it."

"We'll talk about that later," Garad told him, making a mental reminder to do just that. "But now, why don't you tell me what happened to my Captain? I'm afraid I don't remember much…."

SCENE BREAK

The distant sound of laughter and conversation drifted into the ward. The Men of the garrison and its new refugees were giving a fare-thee-well to those who were leaving in the morning to fight the Corsairs of Umbar.

Faramir had done his turn at the party earlier, accepting the thanks and cheers offered to him with a lift of his tankard and an embarrassed bow. Thankfully, Boromir hadn't made him stay much longer than that, allowing him to slip away from the revelry for a change.

Then again, this wasn't a formal acknowledgment of a victory won and thus a power-struggle between Denethor and Boromir, but the camaraderie of those on the front lines about to go into harm's way together. Boromir understood that for Faramir, this time was best spent with his Square, in quiet thinking and the careful preparation of his gear.

A particularly loud moment from the party burst into the room, startling in its volume, and Faramir automatically looked at Beregond. Unfortunately, his friend slept on, oblivious.

Sighing, Faramir set one of his boot daggers and his sharpening stone and oil aside and rose.

"Is he stirring?" Garad asked, no doubt hoping his restricted movement had prevented him from seeing something Faramir had noticed.

"No," Faramir sighed. Putting his hand on the back of Bear's head, he Searched for his spirit, and found it right where it should be.

"Can you do anything?" Garad asked him, as he had not asked Faramir until now, until this moment when their separation loomed.

"His spirit doesn't wander. He just doesn't wake."

"I can't blame him," Garad muttered. "Considering what he thinks is waiting for him when he does…."

"You mean lying about in his Lady's arms while the rest of us grunt around in the wet and the muck in Ithilien?" Damrod asked him, neatly cutting off that particular means for Garad to torture himself.

A knock on the door jamb heralded the arrival of Liel. "May I come in, Gentlemen?" she asked.

Faramir turned to the door with a welcoming smile. Damrod put down his quiver and rose, both in respect for her and to assist Garad in sitting up higher than the wedge pillow allowed.

"Of course, Your Grace," Faramir answered for them all, giving her a formal bow.

"Still no change?" she asked, coming into the room to go to Beregond.

"Not yet," Faramir sighed, stepping back to give her room and watch her work. It was a trifle incongruous to see her acting like a healer, for she was dressed as a Princess tonight. He noticed her dress was woven of wool rather than the silk the nobility of Minas Tirith was accustomed to wear, and the buttons that ran down its front were made of the same cloth as the dress, instead of being made of gold or silver, but not even the richest smuggler in Minas Tirith could boast anything half so precious as the circlet she wore.

Elegant, ancient, crafted of Mithril, it rose like the prow of a great ship above her forehead into the Star of Eärendil. A single jewel cut by a long-dead Dwarven hand sparkled blue and white in the center of the star, a sign of her allegiance to the mythical High King of Eriador and the equally mythical King of Gondor

She wore it rarely, and he was surprised she had brought it with her, until he had seen the light of it reflected in the eyes of the Men and Women who had lost everything but the birthright it represented and in the pride of the old soldiers and young boys who thought themselves forgotten, the least of Gondor.

With her own sigh, Liel stroked the back of Beregond's head. "He is growing stronger. He should have woken by now."

"He will in his own time," Damrod said, rather sternly. "Beregond is better than most with Meridian healing, and as your Grace well knows, they often take their own sweet time recovering."

"That's true enough," Faramir agreed, raising an eyebrow at her to remind her of her own infrequent coma-like convalescences. "The Valar know you've aged me beyond my time with that trick!"

Laughing, she fussed with his collar, straightening his shirt on his shoulders. "I've discussed this with Boromir. Elena and I shall remain here, until Beregond is recovered enough to move. My Lancers will stay as well, as will the refugees, until word comes as to the disposal of the Pirates. Cair Andros may yet need the extra man-power."

"A good plan," Faramir agreed, understanding the true meaning of it. There would be no chance for word of the ambush to leak to ears that might not have the best interests of Gondor in their hearts, be they in Osgiliath or Minas Tirith. He knew his Uncle Imrahil would behave accordingly, no doubt taking his ships out to "practice" riding the tide and the wind upriver, as he often did. Boromir had at last learned to be wary of their father.

"You will all have an early night?" she asked them, taking them in with her glance.

"Yes, Your Grace," they chorused, and for once, they meant it. The skills of Rangers would be needed and quickly, for scouting was difficult enough with a full Square.

"Good," she said, giving Garad a thorough visual inspection, though Damrod's presence saved him from the full going-over. "I will see you on the morrow."

"Sleep well," she told them.

Faramir hugged her, giving and accepting a kiss on the cheek, a liberty the company allowed them both to take.

"Have a good night," he wished her, knowing from experience that sleeping was the last thing she would be doing.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

The night was cloudy, the light of the full moon sporadic. It didn't look or feel like rain, just late fall on the Western Anduin.

Feeling more than a little foolish, Boromir took a look over his shoulder to make sure there weren't any visible guards watching him make his way down the ramp. The river sent a lazy wave across its stone incline a little higher than the waterline, as if in greeting.

"Right," Boromir muttered to himself, kneeling down just above where the little wave had crested. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth, then closed it when he realized he had no idea what to say. He should have asked Faramir how to do this right, but didn't want to endure the needling lecture the question, "How do I apologize to the river?" was bound to provoke.

"Look," he finally said; the back of his neck burning with his blush as the water and the wind seemed to pick up his softly spoken word and fling it echoing off the harbor and garrison walls.

He cleared his throat again, setting his shoulders and his jaw. "I'm sorry. I should have known better. I'll never doubt you or the West wind again."

Shifting his cloak so that the soft warmth of its fur collar brushed against his cheek, he pulled forth the bottle of mead he'd smuggled away from the party. Quickly, carefully, he broke the wax seal. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he gave it to the river, bottle and all. He followed it with a little bouquet of rosemary and the tiny white blooms of the Kingsfoil he'd spirited out of the old, not quite overgrown gardens. He had a feeling roses would have been better, but it was too late in the year for that, here in the middle of the River far in the West of Gondor.

"Thanks, by the way," he added gruffly.

The wave lapped at him again, bringing the bouquet into his sight before pulling it away again, as if saying thank you. Shaking his head at his own imagination, he ran his hand through his hair and looked up at the cloudy sky.

The lighthouse rose high above him, reminding him of the White Tower. The great lamps no longer shone, though her mirrors were polished and ready for the needs of fleets and kings long since gone. Even if there had been sail crowding the Anduin day and night, they no longer had the resources to fuel the fire that had replaced the light wrought by Dwarvish skill and Elvin magic, destroyed by the Witch King and that first Boromir of Gondor so long ago. The light of Gondor was dim now, fading to a flicker, waiting for the black breath of the East to finally blow it out. He wondered if his beautiful Tower of Guard would also outlive her purpose.

The West wind picked up suddenly, unexpectedly, pushing the clouds from the silver face of the Moon and the smooth, white walls of the lighthouse suddenly shone like a beacon she once had been. The blackness of the night lifted, washed to deepest blue by the brightness of the Moon.

"Boromir?"

Liel's voice called to him and he turned toward it. She stood at the top of the ramp with one foot forward, her long, loose hair lifted by the breeze. She looked like Elwing on the prow of Eärendil's winged ship, the light of the Silmaril on her brow as they sailed onward through eternity together.

Then she smiled down at him and became his again, real and beautiful and shivering in the spray.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, wrapping her arms around her torso. They were tight under her breasts, lifting them even higher in her low cut bodice than her lacings did. She was wearing the kind of dress he liked best, one without the boning of a corset or the impediment of layers of stiffness under its trailing skirt. Only the cunning of the cutting of the dress and the strength of its tightly laced, sleeveless linen under dress kept the welcome of her curves and deep warmth from him, along with the tantalizing buttons in their loops running down her torso. He'd swallowed his fair share of the little bits of rolled fabric chewing her such dresses off of her, and wanted to do nothing more with his last night before battle than to dine upon her again.

"Boromir?" she asked again, shaking her head at him fondly as he struggled through the fog of his lust to her question.

"Apologizing to the river," he answered.

"Good idea," she told him, letting go of herself to open her arms to him as he walked up to her with his cloak held out. He brought them both into the warmth of its embrace, half-turning so they could share the beauty of the Moon on the water.

He heard her murmur happily, laying her head carefully against him so she wouldn't stab him with the point of her coronet. A deep certainty overtook him as he held her, his chin against the warmth of her hair and the bright cold of the thin Mithril band encircling the crown of her head. Gondor was not made of towers, or great ships, or long-lost magic. Those were merely the things Gondorians had made.

No, Gondor was here, in his arms and sleeping in the garrison. Gondor was the heart beating in time with his, was the new baby sleeping with its family, was the Men of Rohan who rode for the sake of friendship rather than gold. Gondor was Garad and Damrod and Beregond, in the stubborn miracle of their living.

Above all, Gondor was Faramir. The first time he had held his little brother and quieted his troubled squalling was the first time he had truly known what Gondor was. It was the first time he had fully understood the privilege of his duty to it, the same privilege Aglariel of Osgiliath knew as she knew how to breathe.

'I love you,' he thought, tightening his arms around his Princess.

"Will you have me, Woman?" he asked aloud, as a plain soldier would say to the one he wished to make his wife.

She lifted her head, looking at him, her face serious but her grey eyes outshining the Moon.

"I will," she answered gravely. "Will you have me, Man?"

"I will," he promised, and the thing was done. They shared a kiss, a soft, sipping one, and then she was against his shoulder again.

"There was none to witness it," she sighed.

"Gondor is our witness," he replied. "The Anduin and the West wind, Eärendil and Elwing, even Elbereth herself. Who else do we need?"

"Faramir, perhaps," she answered, smiling.

"Faramir will know soon enough." If all went well, and went as he planned, all of Gondor would know he was more than her champion, regardless of his father's spite.

"Husband?" she said, her voice dipping low to vibrate through his spine down into his pelvis. "Are we going to stand out in the cold all night?" She punctuated her question with a gentle bite the point of his jaw before sucking on his earlobe for a brain exploding moment.

"There is no place else to go," he said between clenched teeth, even as his eyes swept the harbor for suitable shelter on one of the boats or the barges moored there.

"I know a place where it is warm and private – and where the doors lock," she purred.

"They do?"

"Mmm; there is even hot water and towels a plenty and soft places for us to lie together."

Even with the blood roaring in his ears, he could hear the encouraging slap of the water against the ramp as he swept Liel up into his arms.

"Lead on, Oh My Wife!"


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

"You bastards!" Faramir snarled, rolling half off the edge of his cot to pound the floor in useless, bruising frustration; "You miserable, fornicating bastards!"

"They're in the laundry room," Damrod said, rather conversationally for the circumstances. "It's in the base of the tower, so the heat will rise…."

"SHUT! UP!" Faramir bellowed, bruising the side of his clenched hand some more. It gave his body something else to think about besides its perfectly natural reaction to the highly unseemly dream he had woken from.

"They probably think the ceiling and the walls are thick enough no will hear them," Garad observed, his words spaced between measured breaths. "They probably didn't consider the vents would be open…."

"I'm fucking going to kill my brother…" Faramir groaned, letting his head hang in defeat.

"I'd rather you killed your brother while he's fucking," Garad suggested. "We might get some sleep, and he'd die happy."

Faramir groaned again, flinging himself back on the cot and pushing his fingers in his ears. It didn't help. It never had.

"Might as well make some use of the night," Damrod yawned.

"Can't," Garad growled. "Elena says not as long as I'm in traction."

Ignoring Garad, Damrod stood and stretched. "So, the usual odds on dawn?" he asked.

Faramir threw his pillow at his Sergeant's head, wishing it was his boot and that Damrod was Boromir. The older Ranger caught it with equanimity, returning it with force before strolling out the door in search of beer money.

"Looking for someone?" Damrod asked aloud, stepping out of the corridor's shadows.

The boy Ciran jumped a foot, turning in the air to land staring up at him. "I… um…."

"Yes?" Damrod asked, folding his arms and looking down at the blushing lad.

Ciran straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin defiantly. "I thought I heard…."

Damrod raised an eyebrow at him, more of a smirk in his smile than he had intended.

"Not that!" Ciran dismissed. "I've got three sisters, I've heard that before. But I thought I heard…."

He paused, obviously trying to think of the best way to answer Damrod. "Is Captain Faramir well?" he finally asked.

"Well enough," Damrod answered, concealing his surprise. "Our Captain, he enjoys sleeping like some Men enjoy eating. He dislikes it when he's interrupted."

"My mother says he's still very young," Ciran nodded, his expression terribly serious; "Especially for a Prince of Numenor."

Both of Damrod's eyebrows lifted. "Are you in the habit of discussing my Captain with your Mother?" he asked.

Ciran's fierce blush returned. "He was injured. He wasn't breathing when I – when Rian got to him."

'_Save a life and that life is yours to worry over for the rest of yours,'_ Damrod reminded himself, looking at the boy in a new light. He wasn't so much younger than the Faramir he had first met, not so many years ago, splitting willow wands at a Man's distance with a child's bow.

"Faramir is well," he told Ciran. "And while he would prefer to be sleeping, at least he isn't fretting about the mission."

"Why would he fret?" Ciran asked, frowning.

"Because my Captain thinks far too much and far too deeply than most Men are able to."

"He worries a lot, doesn't he?" the boy asked.

Damrod folded his arms across his chest and forced himself to look stern. "Do your parents know where you are?"

"They are attending to the babies," Ciran hedged.

Damrod considered what the boy hadn't said. The parental check on the eldest Son would have been quick and perfunctory, superseded by the crying need of two babies. The patience to wait for the check, to bide his time and slip away in the best moment rather than the first moment was unusual in anyone, especially a child. It began to make sense that Boromir had assigned Ciran to be Garad's legs. He would have looked at Ciran and seen the reflection of his brother.

"You should go back to bed," Damrod said sternly.

"I would not sleep," Ciran pointed out.

That was true enough. "Can you write?" Damrod asked.

Ciran's eyes flashed. "I have my letters, and my sums. I have my weights and measures, too! I help my father with his brewing."

"Good. Then you can help me with mine."

Eomer had learned early on to sleep through the sounds of passion. It was a necessity when sleeping communally in the Great Halls of Rohan or when camping with the herds. Selective deafness was an essential part of courtesy as well as a pragmatic solution to the absence of thick walls.

But this was different. This had actually driven him from the company of his fellows, out into the night, driven by a restlessness that had little to do with the caterwauling keeping the garrison awake.

He went to where the horses were sheltered, a habit he had taken to when young. More than once, he had woken to his father lifting him out of the warmth of hay to carry him back to his bed. Sometimes, after Eowyn had been born, he had woken still in the hay, his father sleeping beside him. Those had been the best mornings he'd ever known, the time spent just with the two of them and the horses….

Freawine was on guard, standing with his nose into the wind, the stallion protecting his herd, even here in this peaceful corral. The Gondorians had offered them stables, but it was better for horses to be together, with room to move and graze, than boxed away from each other.

Freawine turned his handsome head to look at him, extending his nose in a lowering, 'hello friend' motion. Eomer accepted the invitation, coming close to lean against the strong neck and deep chest of the horse. He rubbed Freawine's forehead, getting his fingers up into the forelock to scratch in the thick roots. He let the horse hold him up and used his other hand to scratch under the length of Freawine's mane. His own mount whickered softly, but knew better than to try and interrupt.

Freawine's eyes closed in bliss and he turned his head so he could breathe softly on Eomer's face. He returned the welcome, brushing his cheek against the softness of the horse's upper nose. Freawine lifted his lip, whisking it back and forth, making his wiry guard whiskers tickle a grin out of Eomer.

"Don't let the night guard see you," Theodred's voice advised from behind him. "They tell enough stories in Gondor about the perverse habits of the Mark as it is."

"Fuck Gondor," Eomer replied, but without malice.

"Gondor doesn't need any more encouragement on that front," Theodred told him with a laugh. He came to the other side of Freawine, joining in the grooming session to the eye-closing, head drooping bliss of the horse.

"They call us perverts," Eomer complained. "One of those Rangers was taking bets on when his Prince will finally give out!"

"Sunrise," Theodred said with certainty.

Eomer snorted softly, not wanting to alarm the herd. "Midnight is all I will flatter Minas Tirith with!"

Theodred laughed again. "You discounted Osgiliath and the plan of battle. She will be there to reinforce him when he fails, and since we sail late in the day to catch the assistance of the tide, neither will feel the need to rush their farewell. Do not let it trouble you, your lost gold piece will go to quench your thirst as well, I warrant."

"But sunrise?"

"When you hear something that sounds like a sack full of badgers, you'll know when to check the time."

Eomer shook his head. "They are not what I expected, these sons of the Steward," he admitted.

"What did you expect?"

"I expected them to be like something out of the stories of the Welcome of Rohan, grave, quiet…."

"Acting with the dignified pomposity of our great-grandparents?"

Eomer shook his head and grinned. "Did they terrify you as well?"

"Of course," he replied; "They loved us, though. Think of how hard it must have been for them to come to see us in Edoras when Eowyn was born. They were old even for the ancient days."

"I'm wondering if the Bards have it right when they sing of the Welcome of Rohan by the Lord of the White City. I'm beginning to think Eorl offered Girion a horn of mead, and the deal was struck there and then!"

"If he was anything like Boromir, it would have been," Theodred agreed, a world of affection in his tone and expression.

"The Ranger taking bets…?" Eomer said. "He said his Captain is the best Man in Gondor."

"I would agree with that," Theodred said, all seriousness now. "So would Boromir."

Eomer chose his next words carefully. "Does Faramir agree with them?"

Theodred laughed. "No."

Eomer relaxed. "So Boromir's soldiers would say he is the best Man in Gondor?"

"No," Theodred said again. "Nor would Faramir, or his Rangers. If you trouble to ask them, they will tell you Boromir is Gondor."


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

"Not you too," Faramir sighed, rolling over on his side to look for the cat yowling at him. Naneth's golden eyes glowed at him, her two front paws braced against the edge of his cot.

"Mep," Naneth said, seemingly indicating her satisfaction in getting his attention. Faramir reached out and scratched her behind the ears.

"There's not a thing I can do about it," he told her. "Just get what sleep you can during the lulls."

The cat licked his wrist before 'meping' at him again. Dropping down to the floor, she took a few steps toward the door and then turned back to look at him and yowl again.

"I think she wants you to follow her," Garad observed, twisting his torso from the waist as much as he could without moving his legs, to be able to see more of the floor.

"Twist that traction out of alignment and I'll twist your balls off," Faramir threatened, rolling up to his feet.

"Be nice to me, or I'll tell Elena what you just said."

"Behave, or I'll fetch Elena and tell her what you've been up to," Faramir countered with a yawn. The cat yowled again, then proceeded to thread her way through Faramir's legs, her soft little paws padding lightly over his bare feet. Bending down with a stifled groan for his still stiff muscles, Faramir picked her up in his arms.

Purring, she butted her head against his cheek, giving his beard a few grooming licks before squirming to be put down. He let her go and she landed gracefully. Looking back over her shoulder at him, she meowed plaintively.

"Go," Garad said. "We'll be all right for the five minutes it takes for you to get back."

"I'll send Damrod back."

Garad opened his mouth, thought better of what he was going to say, and sighed heavily instead. "Do you honestly think I would do anything that would keep me in this bed one moment longer than necessary?"

"I think you easily forget yourself," Faramir told him gently. "If I can find Elena, I'll send her instead."

"If you do, do me a favor? Make that five minutes ten."

"I'll make it twenty," Faramir promised, leaving him with a wave before following the cat out of the room.

Unfortunately for Garad but perhaps best for his prospects of keeping his traction undisturbed, Faramir found Damrod and Ciran first. The two were already on their way back to the ward.

"How did it go?" Faramir asked, stopping to speak to them despite the cat's impatient scold.

"We covered the spread nicely," Damrod answered, grinning at the dire glare Faramir gave him. Luckily, the boy was still innocent enough to be entirely absorbed in the sheet of rough paper he held and the information marked down on it in a fine-pointed charcoal pencil.

Taking the paper from Ciran, he handed it to Damrod. "Go sit on Garad."

"Where are you off to?" Damrod asked him, absently accepting the pencil Ciran handed over to him with reluctance.

"Wherever my master leads," Faramir answered, pointing at Naneth. Recognizing her cue, the cat came back to him, lashing her tail on his legs and meowing a fit counterpoint to the duet beginning to rise again through the laundry vents.

"Go with the Captain," Damrod told Ciran. "Make sure he doesn't trip and fall on anything."

"Yes, Sir," the boy answered, with an enthusiasm that made Faramir laugh.

"Boromir's the clumsy one," he informed Ciran.

"We didn't dig Boromir out from under a hill," the boy returned with an asperity that made Faramir blink.

"Just wait," Damrod laughed. "And keep your shovel handy."

Faramir sent Damrod another quelling look. What the hell had gotten into his taciturn sergeant anyway? Another glance at the neat writing crowding both the front and the back of the sheet of paper gave him the likeliest answer and he shook his head.

"Come on," he told Ciran. "The less time you spend with this old reprobate, the better."

"What does she want?" Ciran asked him as they followed the cat.

"I have no idea," Faramir answered. "But I have learned it is wise to listen to what an animal is trying to tell you."

"You sound like my mother," the boy said. "She has The Touch with animals, or so everyone says. There's always something mending around the inn…."

Ciran trailed off into a shrug, no doubt confronted once again by the reality there was no more inn, no more brewery, no more home.

'I have a friend I would like your father to meet," Faramir told the boy, letting his hand fall on the shoulder closest to him. "He's called Oro, and he runs a tavern in the City of Osgiliath. He makes the finest honey cakes in Gondor, but his beer is tolerable at best."

"My father's beer is very good, but none of us can bake very well."

"A good match, then. Have you seen Naneth's kittens yet?"

Ciran shook his head. "I'm the oldest, I've got to watch my little sisters while my father helps Mum with the baby."

'I've got to watch _Dithen_….' Boromir's voice echoed through Faramir's memory, filled with the same combination of disappointment, affection, and pride as he refused the invitation of boys his own age to leave his little brother behind and go off with them on some grand adventure. It had been different when their mother was alive, but afterwards, Boromir had always refused to leave him behind.

"Do you like taking care of your sisters?" Faramir asked him softly.

"They're all right," Ciran said, shrugging again. "They like to chase you, and if they catch you they want to kiss you, but they aren't like some who scream and run if you show them a frog. My sisters like frogs."

The cat stopped in front of the room Boromir and Liel should have been sleeping in, sitting down and looking back at Faramir and Ciran, waiting for them to catch up.

"Do they like kittens, too?" Faramir asked, smiling down at the boy.

"Everyone likes kittens," Ciran informed him, frowning at Faramir like he was disappointed in the quality of the question.

'_Except my father,'_ Faramir thought. Denethor had loved animals once, even willingly adding to his wife's cherished menagerie. He kept his feelings from his expression, smiling down at Ciran instead.

Their mission was made clear the moment they followed the cat into the room. While it had been tidied, the cots still lay on the floor, their broken legs waiting in the wood bin by the banked fire. The five kittens were ensconced in the folds of their blankets, wrestling with each other and their own feet and tails, mewling for their mother's attention as she rejoined them.

A few licks and sniffs were given to each, and then she picked up the largest of her offspring by the neck. She carried the good-natured orange tabby that always looked like he was half asleep up to Faramir, putting him down on his foot.

Faramir picked him up, unable to resist giving his blinking little face a kiss. He met Naneth halfway to the cot with her second burden, the shrieking, smaller twin of the kitten he held. She dropped this one on his other foot, then sat down and groomed a front paw while Ciran corralled the rest of her brood in a pouch made from the skirt of his tunic.

"Now what?" the boy asked.

"Ask her," Faramir answered, pointing his chin at Naneth while trying to keep the smaller of the orange kittens in his grasp.

Satisfied with the state of her paw, Naneth stretched leisurely before walking out of the room. Deprived of the sight of their mother and their breakfast, the kittens sent up thin wails of distress that hastened Faramir after the mother tabby, Ciran dutifully in their wake.


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

"Not the kind of kitty I was hoping for," Garad sighed.

Faramir gave him a quelling look, tipping his head at Ciran, but they boy was unconcerned, all his attention on the kittens nursing on Faramir's cot, their mother's contented purring filling the blessed if momentary silence.

"Awfully quiet down there," Garad said. "And it's getting awfully light outside."

"I have faith," Damrod replied serenely, putting his hands behind his head where he lay on the pallet beneath Beregond. "If not in him, then in her."

Wincing at where the double play on those words took him, Faramir turned to Ciran and the kittens. The boy was yawning, finally showing signs of sleepiness. The yawn caught him, too, and he relaxed back on his elbows, watching the boy stroke the back of the grey tabby with the white tip on its tail and the one white back paw. It was the smallest one, and the odd one out between the two matched sets of its orange and grey tabby siblings.

"I like this one best," Ciran confided. "I don't know why, but I do."

"I like Clumsy here," Faramir told him, shifting his position to reach out and tweak the tail of the big orange tabby lying on the bottom row of the suckling kittens, its tail straight up in the air, its back legs stretched out and its pink paw pads flexing in bliss. It was still too young to be able to retract its sharp little claws. They looked like tiny white scimitars, and somehow that made him think of Boromir, and the time they had spent playing Pirate in the fountain and pool of their mother's favorite courtyard….

"Do you hear that?" Damrod said, rolling up on his side and peering in the direction of the vents.

Groaning, Faramir sat up. "It's your imagination?" he hoped against all experience to the contrary.

"It's our fortune, Oh My Captain!" Damrod crowed. "The sun has risen, and Gondor still stands!"

All too soon, it became clear Damrod was right. The Noise was upon them, creeping into the room like the sunlight creeping around the edge of the curtains.

"Bastards," Faramir sighed, scrubbing his face.

"It can't last long," Ciran said. "It never did in the Inn."

"Never?" Faramir asked him.

"Well, when it did, I always found a reason to sleep in the stable," the boy admitted, yawning.

"I should have thought of that," Faramir muttered. "I wouldn't have had my growth stunted by lack of sleep!"

Garad and Damrod laughed and Ciran gave him another dubious look. Laughing himself, Faramir rose and walked to where Beregond lay so damnably still.

"At least you're spared this," he sighed. The burns were healing well, better than burns usually did. The scars would be terrible, but would eventually fade from the horrible redness to almost look like skin again, if skin resembled melted wax….

The back of Beregond's head was warm, another good sign. He wished he was better at Meridian healing, but his gifts lay in the Shadow realm, in guiding wandering souls home to their bodies or safely to the gates of the Halls of Mandos. He could do little more for Bear than any other friend, and in a few hours, he wouldn't even be here to do that.

The Noise hitched into its most annoying phase, a rising and falling cacophony. Sighing, he left his hand on the back of Beregond's neck and turned toward Garad.

"You know, I've always wondered what it is he's doing… but I've never plucked up the guts to ask," Garad admitted, grinning.

"He's not doing a thing," Faramir said, just to see the expression change on Garad's face as he considered the ramifications of that statement.

"Our Captain-General is a tenor, remember?" Damrod said, chuckling.

"All resonance, no brains," Faramir muttered, grinning nonetheless.

"He only sings when he's drunk," Garad reminded him. "Which means I'm drunk, and not in the best condition to remember much."

"Not long now," Damrod sighed, craning his neck to check on Ciran. Faramir followed his gaze and found the boy happy with the kittens, the relative innocence of his mind as yet undisturbed.

"We should be getting you back to your bed, Lad," Damrod said. "Before your parents wake and find you missing."

"Wynny does wake up early," Ciran said, reluctantly. "Which means Brin and Thil will, too."

"Come," Damrod told him. "I'll walk you back, and answer any awkward questions. After all, it's not the first time you've come to the aid of the Rangers in this past week, Lad!"

"Would it be all right if I brought my sisters back to the see kittens?" Ciran asked, giving his special one an extra pet before he stood up.

"I could use the company," Garad told him.

"Elena might get jealous," Damrod teased, standing up with his usual production of aged infirmity.

Garad didn't reply beyond flashing a smile, for The Noise was finally reaching its end and it was no use trying to say anything during that indescribable racket.

"…badgers…."

Faramir shouldn't have heard it, but he did, the faintly uttered word perhaps carrying itself to his ears through his fingers.

"Bear!" he cried, The Noise and everything that went with it entirely forgotten as he turned back to bend over his friend.

"…chickens…."

"Don't move!" Damrod bellowed, and in the observing part of his mind Faramir knew he was talking to Garad. "Ciran, sit on him, make sure he doesn't move!"

"Aye, Sir!" the lad barked in response, and Faramir dismissed Garad from his immediate worry.

"Bear?" he said again, putting his mouth down close to Beregond's ear. "Can you hear me?"

"…badgers… after the chickens…."

"It's just Boromir," Faramir told him, his voice shaking. He reached out to put his free hand over Beregond's, lacing his fingers through the other Man's. "C'mon, can you hear me, Bear?"

"…I…."

The muscles under Faramir's grasp tensed, straining with effort, and Beregond's fingers twitched against his.

"…Garad…."

"He's here, he's safe," Faramir told him, his words colliding with Garad's own cry of, "Right here, Bear!"

"We're all safe," Faramir heard Damrod say, and he knew his Sergeant was on the other side of the high bed.

"…the badgers…."

"Boromir is taking care of the badgers," Damrod soothed.

"…Garad… traps…."

"We're safe now," Faramir said firmly, wishing Liel would just get it over with, so they could calm Beregond down and bring him fully conscious.

"I'm all right," Garad called. "I'm here, Bear! I'm all right! It's all right!"

"Hold still!" Ciran commanded, letting Faramir know he didn't have to split his attention between his two wounded Men. He shifted his grip on Beregond's neck to check his pulse. It was thready, faint, not nearly as strong as he would like it to be.

"Come on," he coaxed. "Wake up, Bear!"

The Noise contorted, lifted, and finally exploded, leaving silence ringing through the room. Beregond's pulse jumped, steadied, heat flushing through his cold body.

"Fucking Meridian healers," Damrod laughed, though there was an edge of weeping to it. It wasn't a curse or a complaint, just a statement of fact. The energy raised in the room beneath them had held more than one purpose, it seemed.

"Help me lift him," Faramir commanded. "Just a little, free his face, let him see us."

The dressing of honey made it sticky going, but they lifted his shoulders, and his head, turning him just a little, just enough so he could see Garad, see Faramir, see Damrod leaning over him from the corner of his eye.

"Look, see? We're all here," Faramir told him. "We're all safe, you're safe. It's all right now, we have you."

"…safe…." Beregond repeated, a smile flickering across his face, his eyes on Garad.

"Safe," Garad repeated, holding onto Ciran as much as Ciran was trying to hold him to keep him from hurting himself.

Beregond's smile softened, his eyelids drooping shut, sleep inexorably pulling at him. But it was sleep this time, and he would wake again.

They put him gently back to rest, Damrod kissing the back of Beregond's sweat-damp head. Faramir grinned at him, then turned to share the grin with Garad. Their Square was whole again, and whatever the future held, they would be able to face it together.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

THANKS to all you loyal reviewers! Carolyn

Faramir sighed, listening to his brother's merry whistling grow louder as he drew closer. He smiled up at Beregond's sleeping face, looking so much more alive than it had for days.

"We already know he got lucky," Garad said drowsily. "He could shut the fuck up about it!"

"He doesn't know he's doing it," Faramir said. "If you point it out to him, he'll even deny he does it."

"Bastard," Garad muttered, yawning the word all out of shape.

"You're just as bad, Oh My Lord Smug," Faramir told him.

"You need to get laid, Oh My Lord Captain," Garad countered, with another yawn.

Faramir raised his arm high, twisting his wrist to flip the backs of his index and middle flingers up in his so his Lieutenant could see them from his limited viewpoint.

The whistling stopped, breaking into Boromir's familiar laughter as he arrived in the doorway. "Am I interrupting, Gentlemen?"

Faramir gave his brother the fingers, confident that Garad was doing the same. Boromir's answering laugh confirmed it.

"How is Bear this afternoon?" Boromir asked, with chiding emphasis on the time of day. "Better," Faramir answered, savoring the news. "He woke this morning."

His brother's firm footfall heralded the sight of his legs standing by the bed and Faramir resisted the urge to tickle him behind his knee, an action guaranteed to take him down.

"Her Grace thought he might," Boromir said, and Faramir knew he was fussing over Beregond. Boromir was a great one for fussing, though he would deny that, too.

"You were doing your best to wake the dead," Faramir said with some asperity. "Bear was only comatose. Poor bastard didn't have a chance."

Boromir's legs walked away from the bed, no doubt drawn toward the cats reclining on Elena's bed now, Naneth seeming to prefer the panoramic view of the room and corridor it offered.

"Wake the dead?" Boromir repeated, as if confused. The mewling battle cry of the smaller orange kitten confirmed Faramir's guess about what his brother was doing.

"The fire and steam of the laundry room lends its heat to the entire tower," Faramir explained patiently. "The heat rises through vents. So does sound."

"And if the sound is loud and shrill enough, it echoes all the way up to the top of the tower," Garad added. "And echoes, and echoes, and echoes….'

"Ah," Boromir said after a moment. "Well…."

"Well what?" Faramir demanded, enjoying having Boromir on the ropes for a change. Usually he just ploughed on, oblivious to all the morning-after glares sent his way.

"We'll see how sedate you are on your wedding night," Boromir replied.

Faramir threw himself off the pallet and onto his feet with two goals in mind: To confront his insufferable brother and keep Garad planted firmly in his bed with an arm pile-driven into his chest.

Boromir was grinning, his cheeks blushing red above the line of his beard, an air of floating a foot above the ground about him.

"You bastard!" Faramir cried, leaving Garad to the consequences of his own foolishness to pummel his brother into a back-pounding, wrestling hug. Boromir's retaliation was happily hampered by his need to protect the kitten doing its best to draw blood from anything it could reach.

"You got married without me?"

"A soldier's pledge," Boromir told him apologetically. "The Council won't recognize it."

"Fuck the Council! You got married without me!"

"The moment came upon us in circumstances best left unshared," Boromir explained. "But you are the first to know – and the last, for now. I promise, you will be at my side on my fortieth birthday when all of Gondor shall ring with the celebration of our wedding."

"Have a baby," Faramir ordered. "Now, yesterday would have been better. Force father to recognize you. The rest of Gondor already has!"

"Have your own babies," Boromir replied, as Boromir always did. "The barges are secured," he added, changing the subject, as he always did. "Can you be ready with the tide?"

"Rangers are always ready," Faramir reminded him, letting him go so he could accept Garad's congratulations.

"Where's Damrod?" Boromir asked, dropping the combative kitten onto Garad's chest before taking the forearm offered to him.

"Finishing up some business with the garrison," Faramir replied smoothly. By unspoken agreement, they had never told Boromir the fortune they regularly made betting on him for one thing or another. It would spoil the sport of it, if he were actually trying to help them win. "Where's _Osthiril_?"

"Sleeping," Boromir answered, the tenderness in his voice as he spoke of his wife making Faramir grin like an idiot. "I promised I would wake her when my part in all the preparations were finished, and I knew she would wish to know how Beregond faired. I will bring her here to see for herself. Damrod will be back by then?"

"He will," Faramir smiled, knowing his brother wanted them all together one more time before war separated them for the Valar only knew how long. "I'll ask Elena and Theodred if they will join us in a meal before we leave."

"Not long now," Garad said, when Boromir had left, the whistling he'd broken into fading into the distance.

"Fifteen years," Faramir said, deliberately misunderstanding him.

"I mean before you climb on those damned barges. I've got a bad feeling about those fuckers."

Faramir bought some time from replying by reaching out to distract the kitten from killing the loose tie of Garad's ward tunic.

"Captain?" Garad prompted, and Faramir knew his time was up.

"We're going to use the barges as fireships."

"Are you fucking nuts?"

"Don't yell at me, he got the idea from you!"

"From me?"

"That little fire you set…. It was very effective. Gave Boromir ideas."

"Fuck." Garad hit the mattress with his fist, then winced at the pain it caused him.

"It's only an idea," Faramir reminded him. "Something we're preparing for, but it's far from a battle plan."

"I know Boromir and his ideas," Garad growled.

"Eomer wants to take the trebuchet," Faramir sighed. "But I think he was joking…."

"Fuck," Garad repeated. "Fire ships."

"I don't like it either," Faramir told him and Garad looked at him sharply.

"He's not letting you go on them, is he?"

"He thinks he isn't," Faramir answered grudgingly.

"You're the best shot in Gondor. He'd need you on the shore to make sure the things get fired, if he can't do it," Garad translated, his words uncannily similar to Boromir's.

Faramir nodded, and Garad swore again.

"It's too soon to argue with him about it," Faramir consoled him. "We don't even know what hand we're going to be dealt, let alone how we should play it. And my Uncle will be with us, we won't be unsupported on the water."

"Between you and Imrahil, you might be able to keep a leash on him."

"I'd rather have you there to sit on him," Faramir admitted. "I think it might be easier that the task I'm leaving you."

"He'll be up and walking before I am," Garad said bitterly. "For all the good it will do him."

"Don't," Faramir said. "Because if you tear yourself apart so will Beregond. It was the fortunes of war, and more fortune than most Men have. We should all be dead, and not just us. Every prisoner those bastards had would be dead, butchered beyond recognition for their sport. And they would be just the beginning."

If Garad had a reply, it was left unsaid as they both heard footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, Ciran appeared in the doorway. His brand new baby sister was held in his arms, and his other sisters stood on either side, keeping a watchful eye on their brother. Behind them, the bruises on his face finally fading to yellow and green, stood their father.

"Perhaps this isn't the best time," Tarcien said, putting a gentle hand on his son's shoulder.

Faramir had to clear his throat before he could school himself to smile at them.

"It's the perfect time," he told them, and he meant it.


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

"I could do it," Garad muttered to himself. He could take the intricate interlace design on the arched ceiling tiles of the ward room, and turn it into a piece of chainmail.

It'd be useless for armor, of course, but it would make a pretty trinket for a lady, especially with a glass bead to show off the design. He'd have to get Ciran to smuggle him some wire and tools from the armory, give the design a try, and give the lad and his older sister a lesson or two. It would give them all something to think about, while they were waiting word from their absent comrades and friends….

Sighing, he turned his head to see if Beregond was awake again. The hemp they'd given him after they'd had given their breakfast and bath still held Bear in its grasp. It was just as well, for the pain from his slowly healing, never to be quite fully mended wounds was great.

The smell of jasmine floated into the room, and he lifted his head, his chin on his chest. Elena was backing into the room, her lovely little bottom pushing the door open as her arms were full with a large wooden tub.

Once in the room, she turned toward him, setting the tub down on the floor somewhere near the foot of his bed. Blowing him a kiss, she moved silently over to check on Beregond, making sure his pulse was strong and his breathing was clear. Satisfied with what she found, she crossed to Garad's side of the room, moving back toward the door.

Instead of leaving, she picked up the pole that manipulated the heavy curtain that could divide the room when privacy was desired. Quickly, humming a waltzing tune Garad knew well, Elena walked the curtain across the ceiling, effectively giving him a private room.

Still humming, she came to his bedside, helping him to sit up and putting the wedge cushion and other pillows in place.

"You haven't come to free me, have you?" he asked her, snaring her for a kiss.

"Not yet," she sighed. "Not long now, though, if you're a good little boy."

"I'd be a much happier little boy if you came to bed with me," he told her, kissing her again.

"Not while you still need the traction," she told him. "There's too much danger of zigging when you should zag, and then we'd be back at square one. I'm just as tired of chewing through walls as you are."

She kissed him this time, then stroked a hand over and through the hair that had been washed and combed for him a few hours ago.

"What's the tub for?" he asked, able to see it clearly now.

"Your bath," she answered, kissing him again before leaving him both bereft and bewildered.

She started humming again as she went back outside the room, only to reenter backside first once again. This time, she was pulling a wheeled cart after her, laden with buckets of water, some of which were steaming. Towels and soaps and bottles of oil and other interesting things discreetly covered competed with sponges and pitchers for pouring water and her silver brushes and combs on its top shelf. She parked it by the tub, within hands reach of anyone standing in it.

"You must be very quiet," she told him sternly. "Beregond must rest, so if you make a sound, I shall have to stop. And if you move too much, I'll stop too."

"But I've had a bath," he reminded her with great hope.

"I haven't," she smiled, confirming his wildest hopes as she stripped off her over-tunic to reveal her corset and short chemise, and her full, round breasts.

"Now," she said, tossing the shirt over his good leg. "What shall I take off next?"

SCENE BREAK (Hey, I didn't write it, I'm just posting. VEG Can't help the fade out without showing what happens during 'the bath' ! LOL - Carolyn)

His fucking leg was itching.

The ache he could endure, but the itch was killing him. If he complained about it, he would be told it was a good sign, and then drugged out his mind to keep him from trying to scratch it. He was tired of sleeping, of lying in the same position, of waiting for news….

Word should have come by now, if everything had gone as well as it could. It never did, of course, not even for Boromir, not even when he had Faramir with him.

"Fuck," he sighed, very, very quietly. Elena had left with the first warming of the night from black to blue-grey, leaving them to sleep while she had a breakfast conference with her Princess. It was a sign of how far they'd come, that they didn't have a sentry watching over them every single second of the day, and he didn't want to destroy the hard-earned privilege by waking Beregond.

Shifting against his pillows, Garad reached down as far as he could on his thigh and scratched, hoping it would travel to where he needed to scratch.

"Don't!" Beregond said, his voice thick with sleep.

He was getting fucking sick and tired of hearing that word, but the possibility Bear wasn't speaking to him made him completely forget the itching.

"Bear?" he said, hating the thin sound of his voice.

"It'll just make it worse."

"It can't get worse," Garad complained automatically. Of course it could be worse. Beregond knew first hand how much worse it could get….

"If they catch you, they'll tie socks on your hands."

Garad laughed. "That'd be a new one, even for Elena." He paused, licking dry lips before he could say, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You're not the only one with an itch they can't reach," Beregond told him.

"I'll call for –"

"No you won't," Garad interrupted. "I'm tired of being fluttered at."

"They're just worried about – us."

"You're the worst one."

He didn't have an answer for that, so he opted for silence he hope came over as injured.

"It was going to change sooner or later," Beregond continued. "How many broken Squares have we survived?"

"This is different," Garad answered, glad Beregond still couldn't roll on his side without help. He didn't want to have to look at him, or be looked at for that matter.

"It is," Beregond agreed, his voice grave. "The thing is, Im and I have been talking…."

Garad clenched his teeth, clenched his fists, preparing himself for the speech he knew was coming.

"Things are getting bad in Minas Tirith," Beregond continued, and Garad blinked in surprise. "Bad for us, I mean. The Council is corrupt or incompetent, and Denethor…."

"Is losing his mind," Garad finished.

"If only he'd lose his cunning as well," Beregond agreed with a sigh. "He'll kill them both for his jealousy, and let Gondor burn for his grief. We have to stop the traitors on the Council, for Gondor's sake. We may even be able to save Denethor from their influence."

A cold prickle went down Garad's neck. "This is a speech for Boromir," he realized. "You have been thinking about this…."

"They've been approaching Im. They want her to use her influence with me, to find out, well…. Where Henneth Annûn is, for one."

Garad blotted his face with the back of his hand, trying to control his breathing, to keep Beregond from knowing his heart was pounding with the flashing memory of the last time he had been asked that question.

"It's not your fault," Bear said. "Any more than you falling into that damned trap was mine, or Faramir's. We scouted that place as well as it could be scouted."

"Not good enough," Garad couldn't help muttering.

"Garad – we won. And we can use this. We must use this."

Garad tried to say something, but wound up shaking his head, unable to find any words capable of defining his feeling.

"An embittered Ranger, playing on the guilt of his former Captain…. We can finally be one step ahead of them!"

"If you're not caught and killed."

Beregond actually laughed. "So what would change in my life?"

'I wouldn't be there to watch your sorry ass,' Garad thought, wishing he was enough of a liar to say it out loud.

"Besides not always having you there to save my sorry ass," Beregond said. "You saved my life, you know that? Again."

"I still owe you a few," Garad tried to joke, only to fail miserably.

"There's going to be chances to even the score. You're going to have watch over them when I'm not there to do it."

"I hate this," Garad confessed.

"Better a Square has five Men, rather than three. Or two. Or none. We've both been there. I prefer it this way."

"So do I," Garad had to admit. The sound of a familiar tread came to him, and he glanced at the almost shut door.

"Her Grace," Bear said, and by mutual, unspoken agreement, they immediately arranged themselves into the semblance of sleep.

A minute later, Liel walked into the room. She was wearing boots, a sign she intended to spend the day continuing her work with Lindur in planning the best way to restore Cair Andros to a fully functioning fortress.

"They're sleeping," Elena whispered.

"They're not," Liel replied crisply, a note of firmly controlled excitement in her voice popping Garad's eyes open. Elena was already on her way to him, a spring in her silent step and a grin from ear to ear. The Princess went to Beregond, laying her hand on the back of his head.

"They did it," she announced without preamble.

"They're all right?" Garad demanded, though he knew from how Elena was leaning down to kiss him that they had to be.

"All of ours are alive, and all well," Liel confirmed, then laughed. "The message was scant on other details, but it seems I once more have a Navy!"

"A Navy!" Beregond repeated.

"The harbor at Cair Andros will once again need its shipwrights," Liel said. "They warships would be too vulnerable and too tempting to our enemies if they were kept in the River by my City."

"A victory," Garad said, savoring the words. "One we sought, rather than having it thrust upon us by the enemy!"

"We shall celebrate this," Liel vowed. "We shall celebrate as Gondor used to celebrate in the great days. My City will ring with music and joy, for one night at least."

"When do they return?" Beregond asked.

"Not for some time," Liel replied, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. "There is still much to do, to make sure they have destroyed all the vipers in the nest, and the ships must go to Dol Amroth to be inspected, and in some cases finished. We will be home long before they may join us."

Beregond's sigh coincided with his own.

"Oh, stop," Elena chided, but she softened her words with a kiss on top of his head. "Be good little boys and do as you're told, and you'll be able to go off chasing pirates with Boromir before you know it."

Garad sighed again, and so did Beregond.


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 46

A/N Apologies for late posting, ff net refused to take the file for ages. Also if you got an email note re the posting of Scenes to explain a Romance…. We tried to post it, but the formatting dropped out ALL the paragraph markers etc and ran all text together. We've given up on trying to put it online at least for now.

Carolyn

_**Epilog: Osgiliath**_

Sunbeams slanted in through the window of his lofty rooms in the Citadel of the Dome, accompanied by the joyful birdsong one would expect on an exceptionally beautiful winter's day. Garad wished he could get up from the bed, throw open the window, grab the cheerful little bastards and choke their tongues out of their beaks. His leg was taking a damnably long time to heal. It was the damage to the muscle as much as the bone, Liel had explained. She had also explained that if he wished to rejoin his square, he would keep his ass in his bed and do exactly as she told him.

Valar, he was bored. Boromir's shield pendant was finished, no matter how often he tried to convince himself it wasn't. It was made, and would tolerate nothing more done to it, fuss at it though he would.

He missed Bear, though he appreciated the advantages of the privacy of being alone with Elena. He hadn't seen much of the other Man since his Lady had arrived a few days ago, and Garad couldn't blame him. It would have been a bitter-sweet reunion, though Elena assured him the sweet had rapidly overcome the bitter.

Sighing, he put his hands behind his head and stared again at the intricate tile work and carving of the arched ceiling.

He needed something like that to do, to occupy his mind and his hands, something besides Elena. He wished she was here now, though he knew he must be driving her mad. He needed to be careful, or he'd turn into a net his beautiful butterfly would flee.

There were books, of course, and paper and pen and slate and chalk, and he wanted nothing to do with any of them. Reading was all well and good, but he'd rather hear a minstrel sing or recite the stories. There was more life in them that way, and you could share them with those around you, bring something more to it that just lifeless words on paper.

He heard something in the hallway, an unusual cadence that he couldn't place. It wasn't Elena, at least not by herself. She was as quiet as a Ranger, and just as sneaky, bless her.

Whoever or whatever was getting nearer. Garad wondered if it would stop and look in on him, or pass by, leaving him with the torment of his curiosity. It sounded like someone was dragging something….

The noise stopped outside his door, and he sat up, using his freed hands to move his body forward as much as he dared. Though he didn't need the traction anymore, his leg was still encased in splinting boards and bandages, held immobile to the bed by Elena's damned clever knots.

The latch of his door lifted, and it swung slowly inward. A head appeared; about three feet lower than he had anticipated. It was Haldan, pushing the heavy oaken door open with one hand, the other holding Malta's leash. The good-natured behemoth lent her golden paw to the effort of opening the door, then waited patiently for Haldan to lead her into the room.

Garad raised his backside off the bed a few inches, lifting himself as high as he could to see better. The reliable hound had saddlebags across her back, stuffed full of what he couldn't tell, excepting the two orange kittens balanced across from each other, their bemused little faces sticking out of the fastened bags.

As they came closer, aiming for the side of the big bed unhampered by his cast, he saw that the saddlebags were attached to a pony's chest collar and harness, and attached to the harness by leather leads was a cushion as wide as the rug it had been firmly lashed to. Harma sat on this, his healing leg lifted from the floor in safety, stretched out along the length of one of his carefully positioned little crutches. He held the other in his hands like a canal boat's guiding pole, using its leather-covered tip to push off the leg of the bed, keeping himself safe from collision, guiding his little craft along quite deftly.

Envious as he was of his fellow gimp's ingenious freedom, Garad couldn't help from grinning at them in welcome. His day was looking up at last!

SCENE BREAK

Sighing, Liel shook her head as she looked at the height of the sun through the window into her sitting rooms. She had not meant for so much of the day to pass before looking in on Garad. She needed to speak to Elena, to arrange to take him outside in this stretch of good weather. If she could stabilize his leg properly, she could let him teach the children to pull a bow, put him to something useful before he went mad with boredom and did something foolish.

Laying down her pen, she rose and stretched the kinks from her shoulders and neck. It was nearly time for supper, so it was quite likely she would find Elena with Garad. Smiling to herself, she wondered if her free-spirited First Companion had noticed the terribly predicable domestic pattern she had fallen into over the last six weeks of Garad's recovery. She certainly had no plans to spoil their fun by pointing it out.

Gathering the latest dispatches from the frontline to discuss with them, she picked up her shawl more by habit than need and left to take the short walk to Elena's rooms.

"Elena?" Liel called, stopping in shock. Her First Companion was standing halfway down the hall from her rooms, a hand clapped over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. Elena didn't believe in crying. It turned your face red and made your nose run, and any Man attracted to that was a Man best left alone.

Elena flapped a hand at her for silence. Liel obeyed without question, flying to her friend's side, putting an arm around the shorter Woman's shoulders in instinctive protection. Elena flapped the hand at her again, but leaned into the offered support nonetheless.

"What's wrong?" Liel risked whispering.

The hand flapped again, this time in the direction of her rooms. Liel looked over her shoulder, frowning to see the early evening light fanning out across the hall from an open door. For a moment, Liel's heart leapt into her throat, imagining all the harm Garad could have done to himself. The moment passed quickly, commonsense re-asserting itself: If Garad had been hurt or found the means to fly his coop, crying in the hallway was the last thing Elena would be doing.

With a reassuring squeeze of Elena's shoulders, Liel took her skirts in hand and crept toward the open door. With effort, she kept her head out of sight, craning her neck and contorting her body to see around the doorframe without being seen herself, either form or shadow. The quick glance she got of the room's interior told her such precautions were unnecessary, and she went quietly into the room.

Puddles of the sleepy kind of sunshine lay across the bed, warming bellies and backsides, but leaving closed eyes in shadow. Garad was as he should be, laying flat, Harma sprawled across his bare chest, the tiny cast supported by the arm the big Ranger had around him. Haldan lay on Garad's left, his back pressed against the Man's side, his head on the bicep of the arm he was curled around even as it draped over him. Malta had found a spot on the bed, too, lying on her back with her legs splayed into the sunshine like a drunken wanton, her snout resting on Garad's good foot. The two kittens lay stretched across her, half hidden by her long coat. All were blissfully, deeply asleep amidst the wreckage of crumbs and crumpled napkins.

Loneliness swept through her, a deep, aching longing for Boromir to come home that brought her hand to rest on her stomach. The news was good from Dol Amroth and Umbar, but she wouldn't rest easy until she held Boromir in her arms and their boy lay sleeping peacefully on the other side of her sitting room. Without a doubt, she understood what had so disturbed Elena.

Sighing, she crept further into the room. Malta opened one eye at her, shutting it again with a happy harrumph. With the skill of long practice, Liel maneuvered around the heaped pony harness on the floor, spreading her long shawl over the sleepers. Her slippered feet whispering on the stone floors as her skin never would, she quickly and quietly stirred the fire, adding a log with no more sound than the sighing hiss a falling coal would make. Garad slept on; lulled by the press of warm bodies around him, and the drugs Elena had no doubt bullied him into taking for his pain.

She pulled the door close to shut when she left, not completely latching it. Then she returned to where her First Companion was leaning against the wall with the attitude of someone contemplating banging her head against it.

"Come on," she said, gently turning Elena toward her own rooms. "Let's go wring you out."


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

A/N Posting two chapters today while FFNET is actually co operating for once! Also re the chapter numbers – the last was marked 46 but was in fact 45, so you're not missing anything. BTW, that last chapter, showing Garad asleep with twins, Malta and kittens, is, I think, my favorite of this section – the recuperation, of the story. I'd fall in love with him like that, too! And didn't Eleanor describe it so perfectly? To think I took her to task when she first said she'd written a scene about kittens! -Carolyn

Sitting by the fire, a glass of mead in her hand and a stack of small cream cakes on the table in front of her, Elena was quickly returning to form.

"Bastard," she muttered into the honey wine.

"It's not his fault you decided he was the one to fall in love with," Liel countered.

"Oh, yes it is!" Elena countered roundly; "The Bastard!"

"He's abided by your rules since you brought him home. You're the one who's changed your mind."

"I don't want children. I can't stand the little blighters!"

"Nonsense! You love children."

"Other people's children! I like the ones you can hand back when they start to scream or piss or shit."

"I had to pry Herion out of your arms when he was doing all three," Liel reminded her.

"That was different," Elena murmured.

"So is this."

"He's a Ranger, damn it! You fuck Rangers, you don't keep them!"

"He won't be a Ranger forever. It's a young Man's service."

Elena snorted. "Tell that to Damrod!"

"Damrod is only fifty-two. I'm afraid that won't wash, either, my Dear."

"It's not fair. We only wanted some fun…."

"I have no sympathy for you, not after the way you threw poor Boromir at me."

"I merely tripped you, Oh My Princess. The world isn't wide or long enough for you to run away from him, and a sensible Woman would have recognized that immediately." Sighing, Elena shook her head. "Valar, what am I going to do?"

"You could romp through the Rohirrim when they return with Theodred. Your feelings probably wouldn't change, but I daresay Garad's will."

"Where would the fun be in that? I'd just compare them all to him, and come up wanting."

"Mmm, wanting him," Liel agreed. "My suggestion is to blow your nose, wash your face, and cherish every moment you can snatch."

"What if he doesn't…. What if he likes things as they are?"

"Nothing is ever certain. It's true enough he may like things as they are, but…" Liel shrugged. "I do not think Faramir would worry over your capriciousness so, if Garad's heart had not been won."

"Oh, Faramir's a fussy old grandfather," Elena sighed.

"That's not the gossip I hear," Liel said, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, that. He was of an age and curious, and just ripe for having his heart torn out by some hussy, when all he needed was some proper exercise." Abruptly, Elena paled, and then blushed furiously. "You don't think he told Garad –?"

"I don't think it would matter if he had," Liel replied.

"Maybe you chose the better path," Elena admitted grudgingly. "Perhaps I should have rusted shut until I found a husband."

"The world would have been a paler place for it," Liel said with a smile. "Besides, Princesses are bound by other concerns."

"Are you two going to let Denethor get away with it?"

Liel sighed, lacing her fingers together and looking at them for a moment before she answered. "If Boromir and I were to have a child between us, Denethor would move against Faramir. That is how he would punish us, punish me for flouting him, and punish Boromir for putting others before his father."

"And when Boromir is his own Man, by the soggy laws of ancient Numenor?"

"We must use the years between now and then well, you and I," Liel answered. "I will have my green-eyed babes!"

"Well that's a relief," Elena sighed. "I suppose once you do it, I can claim to just be following the Royal fashion." She thought about it again, shaking her head. "Orome's Horn, what have I got to give a husband or a child? All my Estates are in the East, with no more worth than an Orc's toilet."

"It is likely my City will be the same soon enough," Liel shrugged again. "Remember, our forebears came to these shores little better than beggars, like flotsam and jetsam sparkling with the haphazard glitter of treasure snatched on the run. Who knows? Perhaps the race of Man finds the best in itself when it is faced with the worst."

"Bullshit. It's what the bards like to sing about, but there's nothing else to recommend the lifestyle."

"True enough."

"What should I do?" Elena demanded, leaning forward.

"Take every instant his injury offers; snatch every moment, every kiss, every word. You'll need a mighty hoard to carry you both through whatever lies ahead."

Elena sighed. "I had a feeling you were going to say that."

"So why are you still sitting here? When the boys begin to intrude, send them to me."

"Yes, Your Grace," Elena replied, setting her glass down. Standing, she looked speculatively at her liege. "You wouldn't be collecting babysitting markers for later, by any chance?"

"Absolutely," Liel grinned.

"There they are," Boromir said, his voice rich with satisfaction. "And they haven't seen us!"

"Of course they haven't seen us!" Faramir replied, flicking his index finger off his thumb to smack the back of Boromir's head. "You did what I told you to do, for once!"

Boromir just laughed, drinking in the sight of Garad, still marooned in his wheeled invalid chair, but showing Ciran how to hold a bow properly. Elena stood close by, giving Ciran's oldest sister the same lesson.

Faramir tore his gaze away from Garad, looking around the courtyard that had been turned into a practice field. While it was possible Garad and Elena had been left alone on their own recognizance, it wasn't likely...

'There you are,' he thought to himself, finding Beregond sitting on the top of the high, wide stairs that led from the citadel down into the interior courtyard. He wore a loose robe and sat in a backless chair, Im sitting at his side, spinning as she kept a watchful eye on Haldan and Harma and Ciran's youngest sister. The children were playing nicely together, Malta sleeping between them and the top step. Faramir knew if any were to take a move toward danger, she should be awake, and an astonished babe would be suspended by her massive jaws, swinging gently by the back of their tunics.

Bashing Boromir in the arm with his elbow, he got his brother's attention and lifted his chin in the direction of the steps. Boromir laughed quietly, returning Faramir's elbow with a slap between his shoulders.

"I told you!" he whispered.

"Give us five minutes," Faramir told him. "Then go say hello to Garad. And try not to get between the arrows and the targets this time!"


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 48

A/N Oops! Meant to post this many months ago… apologies!

C

"Good," Garad told Ciran, having to force himself to concentrate on the boy's grip. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd been fine until a few minutes ago, when he'd started feeling like ants were trooping up his spine.

'Pull yourself together, or your day out is going to end in short order,' he told himself firmly, but the jittery feeling refused to leave.

"Like this?" Ciran asked.

Garad ran an eye over the boy's stance. Since he wasn't sure what Ciran was asking about, he took a look at everything he was doing.

"That's fine," he said with an encouraging nod. "Now try the draw like I showed you."

"Like this?" Ciran said again, the bow wobbling a little as he over-compensated in trying to hold it steady as he pulled its string back toward his jaw.

"Good, now relax," Garad coached. "It's not going to run away from you."

"Here, I'll show you how to do it," he heard Boromir say behind him at the same time both of his friend's big hands came down on his shoulders, keeping him in his seat as all the ants bit him at once.

"You bastard!" Garad gasped, grabbing Boromir's wrists. "How the hell did you sneak up on me?"

"You can blame Faramir and Damrod for that," Boromir laughed, bending down to hug his neck and shoulders. It was Boromir's way of telling him they were safe and they were here, before he had to ask. Dimly, his ears still roaring with the pounding of his blood, Garad heard Malta barking in joyful greeting.

"Does Her Grace know you're here?" Elena demanded, arriving to deliver a sound smack to Boromir.

"I hope not," he answered, letting go of Garad to pick Elena up in a bone-crushing hug that left her breathless and glaring. "I sent word for Aradan to keep her occupied until I came to carry her off."

"Bastard," Elena told him with another smack.

"And I do mean carry her off. Little Brother Faramir is in charge of the City tonight!" Boromir said, taking Ciran's forearm in his grasp. The formal embrace quickly became a laughing hug that ended with Boromir tousling Ciran's hair into even greater disarray.

"I see you've done well assisting Garad!" Boromir congratulated him before turning to his wide-eyed little sister. "And I see you've brought re-enforcements!"

He swept the girl a gallant bow, making her blush red. The red turned to purple as he kissed her hand and gave her a wink. "Is he trying to steal you both for the Rangers?"

"They're too smart for the infantry," Garad automatically countered, craning his neck and trying to turn his awkward chair to see Faramir and Damrod. He could hear their reunion with Bear, the whoops and the happy screams of Hugger and Mugger and the unrestrained joy from Malta.

Boromir came to his aid, straining the construction of the sturdy chair by tipping it back to its balance point and spinning it around.

"Watch his leg!" Elena bellowed, but Boromir was off, racing the chair across the courtyard to where Damrod and Faramir were helping Beregond down the stairs, Im following them with the backless chair, Malta guarding the children from harm at their top.

"Faster!" Garad encouraged, laughing as the false wind lifted his hair. Boromir laughed with him, but didn't go any faster, knowing the limits of this particular chair quite well. Within moments, he brought Garad to a safe stop at the foot of the stairs.

"Welcome home!" he told Faramir and Damrod, waiting until they'd forced Beregond to sit before holding a hand out to each.

"You've got the life of ease!" Faramir told him, keeping hold of his forearm longer than was his usual habit. "Lounging about with beautiful women at your beck and call!" He, too, threw a wink at Ciran's sister, who very nearly expired of delight on the spot.

"Look at him, the great lump!" Elena said fondly, and they all obeyed, turning to see Boromir making his way down the steps toward them. Haldan sat on his shoulders, the second youngest of Ciran's sisters was on one hip and Harma was on the other. Spread about his persons five kittens hung on for dear life. Malta followed them down the steps, her worried attention on the mewling kittens.

Grinning, Garad took advantage of the moment to reach under his collar and pull the slip-knot holding the long cord around his neck that he'd strung Boromir's shield pendent from. He palmed it quickly, scratching the back of his neck to cover its retrieval. It was silly, given where he was and who he was with, but with everything in him, he wanted to keep this private, to let Liel be the first other than Boromir to see it.

"She's in the map room with Aradan," he heard Elena tell Boromir as she began rescuing kittens. Ciran stepped up to claim his kitten with the spotted tail and would have taken his sister as well, but Damrod beat him to it.

"Stealing the pretty girls again?" Beregond teased, reaching out to tickle the child Damrod held.

"You're one to talk," Damrod said, smiling at Imeliel.

Laughing, Garad happily allowed Elena to turn his lap into kitten central as he watched Faramir collect the Twins from Boromir, collecting his share of the sugar to be had.

"I'll be back… in a bit," Boromir told Faramir, clapping his brother on the back and accepting one last leaning hug from Harma.

"Boromir," Garad called, tilting his head to indicate the other Man should come closer. Frowning, Boromir did so, leaning down as Garad indicated he should until his ear was next to Garad's mouth.

"Lose it, and I'll skin you," Garad whispered, slipping the pendent and the cord into Boromir's palm.

It took Boromir a moment to understand the threat, to realize what he was holding. When he did, his laughter boomed out, and Garad was engulfed in an embrace.

Then Boromir was gone, bounding away up the stairs and into the Citadel, leaving Garad facing an inquisition of ten.

"I'm hungry," he informed them, schooling his features to epic innocence. "Anyone else want lunch?"


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Boromir crept toward the map room, using every trick Faramir had ever tried to teach him about staying silent and unseen. The map room stood out into the gardens of one of the courtyards of the Citadel complex, a domed building whose walls were tall, arched windows to let the light always play on the inlaid stone maps that repeated themselves across the walls and floors. Some revealed different information important at different times of the year, some showed certain portions of Eriador in detail as it had once been before the fall of Minas Ithil, and others were laid out in deliberate duplication to allow comparison for defense and campaign.

He loved the map room for more than its beautiful utility. It was his favorite place to dance with Liel, waltzing to their humming or to the faintly heard music from the Citadel throne room, their feet whirling over the length and breadth of Middle Earth. It was better than the starry floor of the throne room, for here it was just the two of them, alone, with Gondor below them and the real heavens above them.

Aradan and Liel stood on opposite ends of the Anduin as it coursed through his favorite map, the one that was the floor of the room, best illuminated by the oculus in the dome above them. She stood in the middle of its blue width, her feet bare beneath the hem of her sleeveless morning dress as her gaze followed the progress of Aradan's pointing finger westward.

Frowning, Liel looked over her shoulder, despite the fact that Aradan was speaking to her, going on about something or other down by the Rauros. Holding his breath, Boromir did his level best to become one with the stone of the pillar he was hiding behind. He would have to move swiftly, if he was to spring his surprise successfully. She seemed to always know when he or Faramir were near.

"Your Grace?" Aradan asked, aware he had lost his audience. Liel returned her attention to him, giving him a quick, genuine smile.

"Forgive me, My Lord. My mind wanders today. Yes, I think we should be caching supplies, but we shall have to consult with Captain Faramir to see where it would be best. Such things must be done in secrecy, in these days of fear and want, if they are to be there when our soldiers need to call upon them. We must see what Boromir wants done as well."

Taking a deep breath, Boromir seized the moment and stepped out from behind the pillar.

"Boromir wants you to wear your damned slippers, Woman!" he said, in his best battlefield tone of command.

She didn't scream, for she wasn't the screaming type, but the look on her face of startled, blossoming delight as she whirled to face him was one he would cherish forever.

"Boromir!" she cried, her voice as high as a girl's, then she was in his arms. She kissed him first, before smacking his chest with a light fist.

"You bastard!" she cried, her happiness balanced between tears and laughter. "You scared me half to death!"

"I'm sorry," he said, kissing her cheek, her nose, her lips. "I just couldn't wait for Rohan's horses to catch up with my ship to see you again."

She just shook her head, returning his kisses. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of Aradan making a timely retreat from the room.

"You're going to pay for this," she murmured against his lips, and he felt one of her knees bump up against his. He wondered if she was checking to make sure he was indeed wearing his jointed knee armor under his long tunic.

It was the last coherent thing he thought for some good little while.

SCENE BREAK

It was a beautiful day, Boromir thought drowsily, looking up at the white clouds drifting over the circle of blue sky above them. It was warm enough for a winter's day, though the stone that made the map of Gondor beneath him always felt warmer than it should to him, and somehow more comfortable, too.

"So, did you find any pirate treasure?" she murmured, tipping her head back on his shoulder to kiss the point of his jaw and move the tunic now draped across him to expose the upper half of his chest.

"I did," he answered. "Enough to pay my army and feed our widows and orphans for a few years."

"It will be gone in a few months in Minas Tirith," she sighed.

He caught the hand rubbing gently maddening circles across one of his nipples with its palm, raising it to his lips to kiss its fingers closed.

"The law is clear. If the Captain-General of Gondor captures the supplies of his enemy, and they are necessary to succor his own forces, they are his to command."

"Pirate treasure is rarely grain and meat," she said, carefully.

"What else is gold and silver, but a way to store the worth of grain and meat?" Boromir replied, bringing her hand in his down to rest above his heart.

"Those are Faramir's words," she murmured.

"No, they are not. They are the words of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth."

She was silent a long time, considering what his answer implied. Imrahil was placing his faith and loyalty in Boromir, flouting the authority of the Steward and his Council. Because Theodred and Eomer had been present, she would know that Rohan had tacitly agreed with Imrahil's judgment. If she, too, agreed, his silent coup would be complete. It was just short of rebellion, but if she agreed, he could protect his kingdom and his father, without having to choose between the two.

"Imrahil is wise," she finally said, moving her hand from his grasp so she could hold her to him tightly. "Gold or beer, they are both simply ways of preserving the harvest."

Boromir lifted his neck and tilted his chin to kiss the top of her head. "I have a present for you, my Wife."

"Grain or meat?" she joked, but sat up with him. He almost forgot what he meant to do as he looked at her, curled up like a cat in a ray of sun, her black hair hanging loose around her bare arms, her breasts threatening to fall from her bodice, but he managed to command himself long enough to reach into his boot and take the perfect, tiny replica of his shield from where he had stowed it.

"It's lovely!" she exclaimed, when he laid it in her hand. "It's perfect!"

"I asked Garad to make it," he explained, then had to stop and clear his throat. "The Children of Durin have a custom…. I can't pronounce it, it's in the ancient tongue of the Dwarves, but it roughly translates to a 'shield union'."

"Is it like a marriage ring?" she asked, stroking the beautiful thing with the tip of an index finger.

"It can be," he told her. "If it's the right kind of marriage…. A brother can give it to a brother, a father or mother to a child, a friend to a friend. It's the symbol of a bond so deep, it can't be broken. The one who carries the shield and the one who wears the shield can never truly be parted, not in heart, mind, or spirit."

She took his face in both hands, the silver of the pendant cool yet burning against his skin.

"My own," she said, her voice thick with the tears that made her grey eyes shine like the sea. She kissed him softly, the brush of lips against lips. Then she put the pendant with its cord in his hands, turning her back to him and lifting her hair.

His hands were shaking as they never had with any other shield as he tied the knot of the cord sure and true. When she turned back to him, he had to blink and wipe his eyes to see it clearly, lying just below the hollow of her throat. He only had a moment to look at her, before she melted into his arms, hiding her face against the side of his neck.

"It will be all right," he told her. "You have me, and I have you, and we have Faramir, and Gondor besides. It will be all right now."

SCENE BREAK

"Well?" Elena demanded as Faramir floated down the steps toward the picnic laid out at the bottom of the steps.

Faramir just shook his head, looking at Garad. He tried to speak, but wound up just shaking his head again.

"Well?" Garad repeated, laughing at him. "What have you got to say for your spying, Oh My Captain?"

Faramir caught the laugh, then caught Garad's forearm as well.

"I found the tallest damned dwarves in all creation!" he laughed, making himself at ease on the steps. "And I do not think we shall see either of them again until the Rohirrim arrive."

END


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